


Albuquerque

by villhag



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: AU, F/F, Soft Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, antique shop au, not me writing another super niche slow burn, soft, that's what this is, yup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24671413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villhag/pseuds/villhag
Summary: Eve sells antiques in New Mexico. Villanelle is an out-of-town collector with very specific tastes.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 294
Kudos: 824





	1. E's Artifacts

Twenty-five minutes out of Albuquerque, Eve’s Range Rover sat, stalled, equal distance from a Walmart and John’s Famous Chili House. The sun was bright and relentless, heating the car’s interior like a sauna. Eve reveled in it, spread her limbs and baked in the proverbial frying pan. There was nothing quite like it: the sun, the views, the quiet, early-morning silence. Oh, and a _breakfast burrito._

“ _Shit_ , that’s good,” she moaned, same as every morning. Why change a routine when it works? John’s breakfast burritos were unbeatable. Uncontested. A full-body experience. If she wasn’t in an entirely different line of work, she’d work for him for free. Maybe someday, she mused, letting the dream wrap her in its simple warmth. She had rehashed the fantasy so often she could nearly embody it―the hypnotizing scent of frijoles, carne, butter-soft tortillas. 

The breakfast burrito euphoria accompanied her down the road and off the highway, past the long, indistinct stretches of sand and dirt that outlined her commute. She never bored of the monotony, never tired of the views; to her, it was one long gradient, glorious hues of sandalwood brown, red and blue skies. Connecticut knew nothing of New Mexico. 

It was a brisk fifteen minutes until she rounded the corner into the plaza. Not unusually, she was alone: her Rover occupying a single, lonely space in the oversized parking lot. Early, comparatively, yes, but work still awaited. She grunted out of her carseat and approached the familiar building: a small, Spanish-style pueblo with green and yellow walls. A giant sign hung above: “E’s Artifacts.” She smirked at it. It looked terrible―really needed a paint job. The _E_ was barely an E, more like a dying _L_. She laughed. It was never getting fixed. Not while money bought better things, like add-on Guacamole.

“You smell like burrito,” was how she was greeted, not unusually, by Hugo, “it’s nice. Fragrant.”

“Fuck off,” she half-grinned back at him, flipping the shop’s sign from Closed to Open.

“Is that you firing me?”

“Not formally. But you should be scared.”

“Right,” Hugo laughed, “I hope you’re aware you’d go under in about three days without me.”

Hugo was completely right, so Eve ignored him. She placed her bag behind the counter and sat down, heaving out a sigh as she surveyed the shop like she did every morning. She called it doing inventory, but, truthfully, taking inventory was near impossible. There was just too much of it―too much _stuff_. The tiny space was brimming, cluttered, utter chaos. It was a mess of computer parts, old televisions, keyboards, retro consoles, 50’s toys and mechatronics, barbies and Kens and doo-dads. She grinned. It was a mess, but it was her mess. How disgustingly adorable.

Tuesdays were slow, and this Tuesday was no different. She had a few regulars in, collector types. A few old women came in to bid on some typewriters. Some money-fisting tourist took a handful of old Nintendo games. Eve let them pass in and out, her eyes locked on the wall, her mind elsewhere. She was waiting impatiently for a big delivery, but the UPS truck never arrived. The shipment had been delayed days, weeks. She was used to slow shipping from her antique suppliers, but this was a new level of incompetence.

“Eve,” Hugo announced, startling Eve out of a hours-long haze. He was uncomfortably close, leaning over the counter inches from her face. She swatted him away, groaning.

“What? Jesus, I was sleeping.”

“Sleeping? Eve, your eyes were open,” he said in disbelief.

“So?” she chuckled.

“Nevermind,” he shook his head, “just look outside.”

Eve’s eyes widened with curiosity, and she obliged. The parking lot was typically vacant save a few trucks, vans, and Eve’s Rover. To her surprise, a completely foreign vehicle was parked smack dab in the center: a hot pink ferrari. Eve’s jaw nearly unplugged from her skull.

“Who the hell is that?” she laughed, “God, I already hate them.”

“Hate them? You’re kidding? That is the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a decade."

“You’ve barely been alive a decade.”

“I don’t have to be old to have taste,” he retaliated, “just like you can be old and have none.”

Eve laughed, mocking offense. She was comfortable in her everyday uniform―fitted overalls, red brick turtleneck, low-cut boots. It was an outfit that said, in a phrase: _Yes, and what about it?_ She had worked hard cultivating that image.

“I wonder who owns it,” Hugo mused, still stuck to the window. 

“Someone pretentious, definitely.”

“And gorgeous,” he added.

“Or, you know, rich and ugly.”

“No, Eve― _definitely_ gorgeous,” he stressed, turning to Eve and pointing through the glass at a figure approaching the storefront. Eve’s eyes nearly rolled back in her head. The first thing she saw was the suit―tailored, tan, warm like the sandalwood fields. Then, much more importantly, its wearer―slim, subtly muscular, tall, utterly stunning. Her hair was dirty blonde, cut right at the shoulders. She had a hard, direct confidence that was evident in her walk, but offset by the charisma in her features, soft pink lips and high cheekbones. It took Eve more than a minute to realize her ogling was not one-sided. Light eyes were looking right at hers through the window, holding Eve’s gaze unabashedly. It made Eve’s stomach drop.

“Yeah, fine,” Eve responded weakly, much too late. Hugo smirked wildly.

Before he could shoot back a comment, the shop’s bell was jangling, the door ajar. The woman stepped through with ease, looking around like she’d been there a million times. Hugo said something or other, maybe a hi or hello, but the woman seemed not to hear it. She was entranced by the space, looking intently at the floors, then the ceilings, at the TVs and grandfather clocks. She had an imperceptible look on her face, simultaneously absorbed by everything and completely absent from it.

“Welcome,” Eve said, her voice sounding more like a hiccup than a greeting. The woman turned immediately to her, her focus suddenly undivided. To Eve’s surprise, she immediately smiled. 

“Hello there,” the woman replied, and Eve immediately detected a Russian accent. _Huh_. Eve's interest was piqued.

“So is this your shop? Are you L?” the woman joked.

“Oh, um, it’s actually an E. It’s just a terrible sign,” Eve laughed. The sound escaped her, drawn out unexpectedly like a fish on a line. This woman’s presence felt just like that, bait on a fishing rod, “it stands for Eve.”

“Eve,” the woman enunciated the name like it was fine art, tongue slipping around each letter with deliberate care. The name seemed to please her, as if Eve had chosen it specifically for her, for this occasion, just another item sold off the shelf. Before Eve could form an emotion about it, the woman was instantly closer. No, too-close, elbows propped up on the counter, inches from Eve’s face, “so you are Eve, and you sell artifacts.”

“Something like that,” Eve laughed, again, and hated herself for it, “oddities. Antiques. Weird shit, honestly. Basically anything goes, as long as I think it’s interesting enough to hang on the wall. We also fix stuff, computers, hardware, printers. Oil tanks, one time.”

“So you sell anything, and fix everything?” the woman lifted an eyebrow, her tone mockingly genial. Eve couldn’t tell if she was being fucked with or flirted with. Both?

Eve schooled her expression, shrugged her shoulders, “Pretty much.”

“How weird,” the woman commented.

Eve scoffed, offended. 

“Weird?” Eve said, hands on her hips.

“Yes, very weird,” the woman’s nose crinkled adorably, and Eve’s heart stammered. She was growing more fond of and more annoyed by this stranger every passing moment, “not bad weird, but certainly weird. I have been to many shops like this, but they usually have a niche. You know, something to… tie things together. You have John Lennon CDs and a grandfather clock.”

Eve’s eyebrows furrowed, the scales of fondness and annoyance falling flatly on the latter side.

“Thanks for the feedback,” Eve said icily, “I’ll be sure to jot it down.”

The woman merely grinned back, a permanent snicker etched on her features. She leaned away from the counter and towards the center of the store, tearing her eyes away from Eve to examine the inventory once more. She ran a long finger over an antique stool, and Eve felt it in her gut.

_Jesus._

“Do you sell chairs?”

“Chairs?” Eve said, a laugh escaping her once more. Who _was_ this person?

“Yes. Preferably wooden. Aged. I am looking for inspiration.”

“Inspiration? For what? A chair moodboard?”

“You are not the most convincing salesperson,” she sat on the stool, crossing and uncrossing her legs, then standing back up with a frown, “this one is nice, but not that nice.”

“It’s a perfectly good stool,” Eve said, uncannily defensive. Hugo shot her a look, a knowing smile mixed with a confused _why are you defending a stool?_ sort of expression.

“I didn’t mean to insult your stool, Eve,” the woman laughed, giddy like a child. She strutted back over to the counter, once again invading Eve’s space, “but it’s just not for me. I have specific tastes.”

The way _specific tastes_ rolled off her lips, Eve knew it meant more than one thing. It meant multitudes. Everything about this woman was more than one thing, indescribable, unattainable. The woman’s eyes were stuck to Eve, tracing her features with the precision of a rifle, locked and loaded. Eve wanted to say something back, to keep up the gentle bickering the best she could, but her throat was so dry, her mind barren. The woman licked her lips.

“I don’t have it yet, but we have a shipment coming in,” Eve said suddenly, words slow but urgent, “you’ll want it.”

“Oh?” the woman quirked an eyebrow, “I will?”

“Yes,” Eve said with a laugh, “it’s a piece I selected myself. I’ve been waiting for it for over a year now. The designer was murdered. Pretty spectacularly, but it wasn’t pretty. It inflated the prices of his pieces like crazy, but I have the right suppliers.”

“I see,” the woman said, but Eve knew she had her. Her eyes were dark, lips slightly ajar, movements unflinching. She was looking at Eve like she had just discovered Atlantis.

“So you want to put down a bid?”

“A bid?” the woman laughed, “I don’t bid. I buy.”

“It’s procedure,” Eve said, grinning at the woman’s reaction, “you have to bid like everyone else.”

“Then I will outbid,” she said, matter-of-fact. Her expression was certain, calm, unrelentingly sexy. Eve wanted to leave. Needed to leave. Didn’t want to be anywhere else but here.

“You can certainly try.”

“So when does it arrive?”

Eve grimaced, “I.. don’t know. Was supposed to be last week. It’s taking fucking forever. It should be here soon, though, no later than a week. Or else I’m going to give UPS a piece of my mind.”

“You swear like this in front of all your customers?” the woman grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. Eve bit her lip. 

“Yes, she does,” Hugo interjected, “but she hardly speaks to them for long enough for them to notice.”

“Oh?” the woman said, finally acknowledging his existence, “I’ve found you quite chatty, Eve. I appreciate the special treatment.”

Eve guffawed, her face suddenly hot, “you’re not getting special treatment. I just like money. And that ferrari can be seen from Mars.”

The boldness of the statement seemed to affect the woman, her cheeks reddening slightly. Eve couldn’t tell if it was from anger or delight or something… else. Whatever it was, it was passing, her composure easily regained. She turned to Eve once more and caught her eyes, offering her that same, chilling look she got through the window. 

“This has been great,” she said, and licked her lips, “but unfortunately, I have to go. Meetings to make. People to see. You know. It was such a pleasure to meet you, Eve.”

She outstretched her hand like a challenge, hanging it delicately in the space between them. Eve grasped it, reluctantly at first, and then firmly. 

“I don’t know your name,” Eve breathed out.

The other woman grinned, “you can call me Villanelle.”

Eve blinked, feeling the name etched on her consciousness in permanent ink. Their hands idled in the air for a few more seconds before Villanelle dragged her fingers across Eve’s palm, so slowly and so smoothly that Eve thought she imagined it. 

“Well! See you two, then, for the _bid_.” Villanelle chuckled to herself, overwhelmingly cocky. She gave Eve a last meaningful look before turning on her heel and walking out the door, the wind slapping it closed behind her. A silence filled the shop, like a vacant ocean after a cruise ship came throttling through.

“Wow,” Hugo said, with a long whistle. Eve couldn’t even acknowledge it. Couldn’t even agree with it. She just sat there, her body and mind aflame, alive, awake.

This was going to be trouble. 

  
  
  



	2. John's Chili House

In case Eve hadn’t stressed the point enough―John’s Chili House was paradise. There was very little to expand upon. The place was small, quaint, like most restaurants outside of the main drag. It sat about twenty people at a time, half of those at the bar, the other half scattered on high-stools around small tables. Three different sports played on three different TVs, one narrated in Spanish, another in English, and the third in Portuguese. It was white noise, no-nonsense company, and damn good food. 

Naturally, Eve did not take kindly to anything that dared to interrupt that serenity. Especially if they were tall, annoyingly well-dressed and had no business being in line for a hot taco at 9 in the morning.

“You? What are you doing here?” Eve sputtered in disbelief, standing behind Villanelle like a deer in the headlights. 

Eve clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that, or say anything. Nevertheless, Villanelle turned, abrupt and eager. She had obviously recognized Eve’s voice. Her expression was relaxed, a simple, knowing grin on her lips. 

“Eve,” she breathed, her eyes raking down Eve’s face, “what a pleasant surprise. You come here often?”

“Only every day,” Eve muttered back, “this is my place.”

“Oh? You’re in the chili business too?” Villanelle grinned, “what an entrepreneur.”

“Ugh, no, not literally my place―”

“You sure? You smelled distinctly of taco when we first met.”

Eve’s eyes nearly receded into her head. 

“It was a breakfast burrito, actually,” Eve corrected dryly, as if that helped her case. Villanelle chuckled.

“Is that your recommendation, then? I was going to ask…” Villanelle bit her lip, “you know, since you are the expert.”

“Get whatever you want,” Eve rolled her eyes, staring off into the corner to avoid Villanelle’s piercing gaze. Eve was never one to have trouble holding eye contact, but this felt different. Villanelle’s gaze felt like a challenge, like looking away was losing, and staring straight on was giving in.

It reminded Eve of the days she spent in the back of her Dad’s car, staring at the sun until her eyes went black.

“No, I insist,” Villanelle whined, turning towards the menu, “tell me what to get. I want you to.”

_ I want you to _ . Eve’s stomach was suddenly in her throat, or maybe her throat was in her stomach. There was a lilt in Villanelle’s voice, a suggestive pitch that was both innocent and daring. 

What else did Villanelle want her to do? 

Eve stopped herself. She was asking about a  _breakfast order._

“Get the number nine,” Eve said after a beat, “it’s good.”

“We’ll see,” Villanelle shrugged. Eve balked. She took this kind of thing seriously.

“It is. It’s not a subjective thing.”

“No? Isn’t everything?”

“No,” Eve said, finally finding Villanelle’s eyes again; and oh, god―how dark they were, creased around the edges, accompanied by the most devilish smile. Eve continued, “not everything is subjective. There’s just good taste and bad taste.”

“And you have―”

“Very good taste,” Eve laughed, cutting Villanelle off, “it’s why I’m still in business.”

“Right,” Villanelle swallowed. Eve noticed that her cheeks were a bit rosy, one lip bitten tightly under another. Eve’s pulse quickened.

The order didn’t take long. John’s prided itself on efficiency, and before their idle chit chat could continue Villanelle’s order had been served, crisp and hot on a plastic tray. She frowned, slightly, with a hint of disgust. 

“I feel like I am at McDonalds,” she remarked, picking up the tray like it was carrying an STD. 

“You make it sound like McDonalds is prison food,” Eve said, grabbing her own tray with a tenth of the care, “their fries are unbeatable.”

“It is like eating plain oil, Eve,” Villanelle said, wavering somewhere between mock horror and true horror, her eyes a bit buggy. 

“Just eat the damn burrito,” Eve groaned, pulling a stool out from beneath one of the high-tables. To her dismay, Villanelle mirrored her.

Not to Eve’s surprise, Villanelle liked the number nine.

“This is absolutely  _ amazing _ , Eve, God,” Villanelle moaned, all but inhaling the breakfast burrito.

Eve bit her lip at the sound, “I told you,” she said, “Very good taste.”

“Yes,” Villanelle agreed, eyes narrowing, “I am starting to believe that.”

Eve hummed, lost for words. The quaintness of John’s had suddenly become suffocating. Everything was too intimate, too close, too  _ much _ ―most of all Villanelle. She was perched on the stool directly across from her, dissecting the burrito like a surgeon and then devouring it like a starved bird. The way in which she switched between the two personas―examining and consuming―was almost eerie, as if a light switch was flicking on and off.

But Eve did not feel scared. Of all the things, she felt enthralled. Engrossed. Her eyes traced Villanelle’s face, from forehead to chin. In their close proximity Eve could make out the light freckles around Villanelle’s nose, the ghost of a scar on her upper lip. She wondered what would happen if she reached out and touched it, how Villanelle’s lips would feel against her thumb. They looked moisturized, thick, round. Soft. 

Eve blinked. 

“You are staring,” Villanelle whispered, licking a fleck of sauce from the side of her lips.

“What?” Eve jolted, “no I’m not.”

“It’s fine,” Villanelle shrugged, smiling through bites of burrito, “I know I am beautiful.”

Eve’s jaw dropped, “I was  _ not _ staring at you, ego.”

“No?”

“No. I was just thinking about work,” Eve said firmly, crossing her arms.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind if you were,” Villanelle said, eyes jumping from the food to look Eve straight through, to pierce her like a shiv. Eve inhaled. Like looking at the sun, she thought again. Bright and blistering.

“Oh?” she mumbled, mind spinning like a dreidel. Villanelle’s lips were so close. And red. And beautiful. And absolutely drenched in John’s secret sauce. Eve wanted to laugh at herself―here she was, utterly disarmed by a woman who ate like a psychopathic toddler.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Villanelle repeated slowly, her tongue swiping slowly over her lips, “I mean, you did say you had good taste, yes? You see something objectively beautiful, you want it.”

Eve felt the color drain from her face. 

“If I was staring at you, it’s only because you are literally covered in salsa,” Eve rolled her eyes. 

Villanelle’s eyebrows furrowed, and she wiped her mouth lazily with a napkin, eyes bulging at the amount of sauce she had managed to get on her face. Eve couldn’t help but smile at the motion, and Villanelle smirked in return. Eve was under a microscope―everything she did Villanelle saw, captured, dissected. 

“Do you live here?” Eve asked, curiosity overtaking her.

“In Albuquerque? No,” Villanelle laughed. 

“Don’t be rude. This is a great city,” Eve frowned, “I mean, just look at the fine cuisine.”

Villanelle laughed, head thrown back, and Eve smiled. This woman was ridiculous. Goofy, even. She was so many things. 

“Have you always lived here?” Villanelle said.

“No,” Eve said, a dull pain echoing across her skull. A memory. She shoved it down, “where do you live?”

“I have many homes,” Villanelle shrugged, “I do not like to be in one place for long. It bores me.”

Eve laughed, “so what? You can just afford a thousand houses?”

Villanelle smirked, shrugging.

Eve’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Who in the hell do you work for?”

Villanelle laughed, a sweet one, eyes-creasing. Eve liked the sound of it. She hated that she did.

“Myself, Eve,” Villanelle said, as if saying  _ duh _ , “I am the best employer I know. Full benefits. Unlimited vacation. Great perks.”

Eve rolled her eyes, “I work for myself too, you know. The vacation time is shit.”

“You need to give yourself a little time off, then, no?”

“And with what money?”

“The money you get from the bid, perhaps,” Villanelle grinned. Eve stared at her. Her expression was devilish, a thousand words hidden behind daring eyes. They said  _ I’m going to surprise you _ . Eve’s eyes said  _ you already have _ .

A beat passed, and Eve stood from her stool. 

“You’re leaving?” Villanelle whined. Eve shook her head. Villanelle switched so seamlessly between seductress and petulant child, ego and id. It was as infuriating as it was fascinating.

“Yes. I do in fact have a business to run,” Eve said dryly, putting on her coat, “and I’m already running late. Hugo’s probably going to come looking for me if I don’t get my ass over there.”

Villanelle laughed, “that would be very funny.” 

“It would  _ not _ ,” Eve pushed the stool in.

“Yes it would. Imagine him running from burrito place to burrito place, yelling, screaming―have you seen Eve? No? Asian woman with amazing hair?”

Eve’s eyes widened. 

“Amazing hair?” she squinted her eyes, hiding an inevitable blush.

“Duh,” Villanelle said with a sly smile.

“I’m leaving,” Eve said.

“Fine,” Villanelle said, wiping her mouth once more and clearing her plate, “then I will leave, too.”

Eve’s eyebrows furrowed, “and go where?”

Villanelle laughed, “places, Eve. Do you think I spend my whole day eating chili and talking to strangers?”

Eve froze. She had forgotten, somehow, that they had only met yesterday. “Strangers” felt an oddly wrong descriptor. They weren’t friends, not at all. But Eve felt like they had crossed an invisible boundary into something else.

“What  _ do _ you spend your day doing?” Eve asked. She couldn’t help it. No matter how long Villanelle avoided the question, prolonged the mystery―Eve was too curious, overwhelmingly so. She wanted to know the story behind the Ferrari, and the suits, and the light-pink scar on her lip. She wanted to know what she did in the morning, at noon, at night. 

Villanelle seemed slightly taken aback, unused to being at the receiving end of the questioning. She shrugged.

“Looking, mostly,” she said, “finding things. Things that I want.”

“So you’re self-employed to, what, look at things?” Eve laughed, incredulous.

“Looking is my job,” Villanelle scoffed, “I’m a collector.”

“A collector?” Eve said, the word striking a nerve in her. Everything about this woman was dumbly, stupidly attractive, God,  _ a collector _ , “and how does that translate to a multiple-property-owning-because-I’m-bored income?”

“I don’t just collect for myself,” Villanelle explained, simply smirking at Eve’s dig, “I collect for clients. They give me a budget and what they’re looking for, and I find the best piece. I get a percentage of the commission. The money is very good.”

“So that explains the chair fixation.”

“Mm.”

“So which one are you here for, in Albuquerque?”

“What do you mean?” Villanelle said, stepping away from the table and into Eve’s personal space, nearly pinning her in between the doorframe. Eve breathed in, smelling Villanelle’s perfume for the first time. It was soft. Floral. She risked a look back at Villanelle’s eyes. Her pupils were inflated, two midnight balloons.

“Are you here to collect for yourself, or for someone else?”

Villanelle blinked. Her lips were slightly ajar. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” she whispered, hot breath landing on Eve’s cheek.

Eve shuttered. She was in the doorway to John’s Chili House, centimeters away from the most attractive woman she’d ever met, and five seconds away from stripping in public. 

“Well, great,” she said, side-stepping Villanelle and making a bee-line for her car, “good luck figuring that out. I’m off to work, then.”

“Eve―” Villanelle looked breathless, distraught.

“Bye!” Eve said, climbing into the driver's seat. She slammed the car door shut. 

She didn’t exhale until she was on the highway.


	3. The Auction

The first time Eve ever saw her store, her first instinct was resentment. The green and yellow palette felt putrid, not earthy or comforting; the sign was dirty, old, not inviting, worn. The circumstances in which it came to be hers hadn’t helped. The cross-country move, the pressing weight of a divorce hanging in every crevice of her car as it skidded over hills and across highways. She resented it because it was a burden, not a gift. And the E wasn’t an E, it was a…

“You know, that sign is rotting,” Hugo commented as he flitted over another page in his book, legs hanging off the side of a vintage television, “it’s like it’s morphing back to its original form.”

Eve grunted. She was too busy to entertain Hugo’s idea of conversation this morning. Her delivery was due in fifteen minutes, and the place was a mess. Well, the place was always a mess―but right now it was critical that they cleared exactly six feet of space. Six feet of gorgeous, money-making space.

“Can you remind me why I pay you?” 

Hugo looked up from his book, “to charm the customers?”

“Right,” Eve smiled icily, “now put down that god-awful book and throw some shit out. We have to make room for the delivery.”

Hugo groaned but complied, taking the trash bag Eve handed him and tossing in whatever objects seemed forgettable, or at minimum could tolerate a bit of tossing around. Plastics, toys, remote controls. The pair of them hauled until they were out of breath.

“About that raise…”

“Zip it, boy scout,” Eve said, pitching the bag over her shoulder.

“Will you ever stop bringing that up?” Hugo groaned.

“Maybe when you take it off your resume,” Eve laughed, towing the bag to the back of the store and dropping it in a lump, “it’s a miracle I hired you. Skills include: fire. Like, really?”

“You’re going to regret that when someone sets this whole place ablaze,” Hugo warned, brushing off his clothing like he just came back from a coal mine, “I will be the one thing between you and six figures of damages.”

“If someone set this place on fire, I would simply move.”

“That’s all it would take?” Hugo grinned, “A little bit of arson for you to get out of here?”

“Just about,” Eve groaned, settling back into her seat.

“Nothing else?”

“Nope,” Eve replied, eyeing him with suspicion. 

“Nothing at all?”

“What are you getting at?” 

He put his hands up pleading, “nothing. Just wondering.”

Eve felt her heart sting. In a flash of tan cedarwood, she saw Villanelle’s suit jacket appear before her conscious.  _ Nothing else?  _ The question reverberated, echoing, echoing. She shook her head, staring pointedly out the window. That woman was a roaring engine, an unstoppable force. Eve was stuck like gum to this place. Albuquerque had her under its firm leather boot, and she liked it that way.

“Ugh, another boring eight-wheeler,” Hugo said, drawing Eve’s gaze to the delivery truck meandering towards them, “I miss that ferrari.”

Eve ignored the way  _ that ferrari _ made her skin crawl, “that’s my delivery. That’s my fucking delivery. Thank you God, you really do exist!”

She jumped from her seat and plugged a doorstop underneath the entrance. A group of three men opened the back of the truck and dragged out a wide cardboard box, labeled fragile on all sides. They towed it glacially through the front doors, Eve watching them with a deep frown and hawk-eyes as they settled it onto the hardwood floors.

Once it was abundantly clear that the package was no longer in danger, Eve let out a breath. The men disassembled the cardboard with rapid efficiency until all that was left was shipping confetti and tissue paper. Clearing it away with her hands, Eve’s fingers traced solid, white oak. She continued down, cupping the steel base. 

“Yup, this is the one. Thank you so much,” she said, turning to the delivery men. They  _ you’re welcome _ -d and were off, a blip in time and space. For months she’d been waiting for this very moment, and there it was, here and gone. 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just feel up that chair like it just got you off,” Hugo murmured, giving the package a quick glance before returning to his book. 

“It basically did. I’m having a body high.”

“You need to get some, like badly,” Hugo grimaced.

Eve rolled her eyes, “what I’m getting tonight is cash, Hugo. Name something sexier than that.”

“Our last customer, maybe.”

“Richard? You realize he’s like 79, right? Pushing 80?” Eve laughed.

“Still sexier than you getting off to a chair. Well, maybe, actually―”

“Stop talking,” Eve said, shooting him a glare, “Listen to me. This chair is about to make me three grand. More if I’m lucky, so lay off, and start setting up the refreshments” Eve rolled her eyes. 

Eve knew her way around an auction. Even when she was a kid she was fascinated by them. It was theatrical capitalism, a rehearsed show with conflicts, twists, screams, bickering, laughing, crying. Eve’s dad brought her to dozens, sometimes to bid, sometimes just to watch. He always told her to look after the quiet ones, not the loud ones, that the losers always bid fast and first. The real players watched and waited. 

But selling is a completely different ballgame. You have to watch everyone at once. You have to know your customers intimately, psychologically. Talk to them, befriend them, laugh with them. It doesn’t matter if Eve’s selling a $20 TV or a million-dollar antique set, she plays the game all the same.

Unlike most auctions, however, this one was special. It involved an outside player. Eve loved the thrill of it, the way not-knowing made her want to know more. Know everything. Villanelle was an utter mystery, a trove of money and sex and influence that sat dormant behind daring eyes. For all Eve knew, she could be worth thousands of dollars. Maybe millions? Eve shivered, her skin hot, pulse beating. She didn’t care what the amount was―she just wanted to reel it out of her, fish and hook. Bait and switch. 

The thing people don’t know about auctions, is that the competition is only ever between two people. The winner and the seller. Everyone else is background noise.

The auction was set for five PM on the dot. Hugo had arranged everything perfectly, much to Eve’s surprise. The tables were set perfectly in the parking lot, fresh lemonade accompanied by cold beers. There were about two dozen chairs, flimsy pink plastic things that Eve touted out for every auction. At the center of it all was  _ La Chaise _ , the chair. Her beloved, pretentious chair. 

The moment Villanelle came into the store, Eve knew it’d be hers. Its smooth, elegant curves, the lofty organic shape; the sturdy steel beams, the oak interior, the cedarwood accents. Most of all, the backstory: murder, death, mystery. It was a chair that projected a feeling, an ambiance, just as Villanelle did, walking through that door and straight into Eve’s veins. Eve had been aching ever since, a dull  _ wop, wop, wop _ .

She took in a breath. She hoped selling the chair would rid her of the sound, the temptation, the longing. She promised herself that it would. Villanelle would have her throne, and she’d be gone. And Eve would sit happy, satisfied, three grand richer.

“So what’s the reserve on this… shape?” Hugo asked, joining Eve by the auctioneer booth to stare confusedly at the centerpiece.

“Technically two thousand,” Eve said, “but I’m going to sell it for three.”

Hugo blew out a breath, “that’s quite the price hike. Didn’t you get it for two hundred?”

“Yup,” Eve grinned greedily, raising her eyebrows, “that profit margin is just,  _ ugh _ , God. I’m going to buy myself something nice. Maybe I’ll get the sign replaced.”

“You’re definitely not going to get the sign replaced.”

“No, definitely not.”

“You’re probably just going to get Guacamole at John’s.”

“The extra 1.50 is seriously a rich-man’s privilege,” Eve balked.

“Look, it’s your guest of honor.  _ Jesus _ , I want her stylist.”

At the sight of her, Eve did everything she possibly could not to fall over. Villanelle had arrived thirty minutes early, because of course she had. Not only that, but she was wearing what Eve could only describe as a Gucci-styled Gloria Steinem―wide-brimmed, chic sunglasses, flowy black pants and a tight fitting white halter top, hair combed effortlessly to outline her heart-shaped face. She looked like a sunbeam. 

Eve ignored her, pointedly, until she approached the auctioneer booth. 

“Hi, Eve,” she greeted, lips a smooth, curved line. Her expression was calm, but energy radiated off her body like a nuclear plant, “cute little setup you have here.”

“Happy you could make it,” Eve said, giving nothing away. Villanelle looked her up and down without an afterthought, eyes tracing Eve’s face like they always did, circling around her eyes and lips like homing missiles. Under her gaze, Eve’s whole body was alight.

“So, what’s the reserve?” Villanelle asked innocently. Eve laughed, eyes wide.

“You don’t get to know that.”

“No?” Villanelle frowned, “are we not friends, Eve?”

“I met you a week ago.”

“And we shared some very excellent burritos, if I recall,” Villanelle pouted, hands tracing the table between them lazily, “fine, have it your way. I will bid how I feel. It is an excellent piece, by the way.”

Eve felt a surge of confidence at the compliment, “told you.”

“I believed you, of course,” Villanelle drawled, eyes stuck to Eve’s lips, “I could tell from the moment I stepped in that I wouldn’t need to look anywhere else.”

The words settled between them. Eve felt a shiver run up her spine. Everything Villanelle said felt like a revelation, like literature. She wanted to hear it over and over again, dissect every syllable like Villanelle dissected the world, with an army knife and a magnifying glass.

“Good,” Eve said, simply, not sure what else to say, “I hope you brought your credit card.” 

Villanelle laughed, shaking her head, as if that was a funny thing to say.

“I can pay you in anything, Eve,” she smiled gently, “I will have you shipped a thousand Morrocan pennies if that is what you need.”

Eve couldn’t help but smile at that, “Morrocan, huh? How about New Zealand quarters?”

“I have my contacts,” Villanelle grinned back. 

In that moment, Eve felt a tug somewhere else in her body―not low, in her stomach, where desire usually sat, but high up, fluttery and warm and  _ sudden _ . She had the thought that she could talk to Villanelle for hours. About anything. And it would be nice.

Eve blinked. Other bidders had arrived. 

“If you don’t mind…”

“Of course,” Villanelle said, before Eve could even ask, “be a good host, Eve. I’m going to go hassle some locals.” Villanelle smirked and walked off, turning every so often to let Eve know that she was still watching her. It was an understanding between them―the mutual watching. Eve had never before felt like a performance, like her actions weren’t hers alone. She had acknowledged in her marriage that Niko might have found things she did sexy, that her movements might be turn ons. But she never really gave into the thought, she never  _ performed _ . 

For Villanelle, a stranger (an acquaintance? A customer? A burgeoning friend?), everything Eve did was with intention, and everything Villanelle did made her feel like she was melting. The way she talked to strangers, with calm, collected gestures and wiggling eyebrows. The way her mouth moved fluidly around words, seamlessly throughout languages. Eve felt like she had tuned into a long-forgotten radio channel, her body buzzing with static and muscle memory.

It took about forty-five minutes for everyone to arrive. There were around fifty participants, some locals, others traveling collectors. Eve greeted all the locals warmly, and the outsiders with firm handshakes. Each bidder registered with Hugo, received a small sign to raise, and made their merry way to their chosen seat. At 5:15, Eve tapped the mic, Hugo quieted the audience, and the show began.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming out today,” Eve began, a smile naturally forming on her lips. She couldn’t help it, she loved the spectacle, “I see a lot of familiar faces, and some new ones. Don’t worry, I don’t play favorites, unless you pay me to.”

The crowd laughed, and Hugo shook his head. Eve caught sight of Villanelle, reclining in a chair near the middle, eyes focused, lips slightly parted. She wondered what she thought of Eve in this moment, how she was commanding attention. It made Eve’s stomach stir. She tore her eyes away. Not the time.

“So today’s a special day. For those who know me, I’ve been waiting for this chair to come in for a long, long time. It is called La Chaise, French, obviously, for The Chair, designed by the late Alexander Eaton, who was famously murdered last year in his own home. La Chaise was one of the last things he ever designed. Eaton was a very well-known designer in the south of France, and received worldwide acclaim for his organic designs and creative use of wood. La Chaise is made of solid natural oak, chrome-plated steel, with a white lacquer finish.”

The description drew all eyes center. Eve could tell she had persuaded quite a few buyers already, and one buyer in particular was growing impatient in her chair. Villanelle was steely silent, but Eve could sense through the bitten lip and raised eyebrows that she was waiting. This was the game―make them want the piece, convince them they need the piece. 

It crossed Eve’s mind, as Villanelle’s gaze shifted from the chair to look her straight-on, that the piece was irrelevant. That Villanelle was playing a longer game, and Eve was the one being sold to.

_ No chance _ , Eve thought, and cleared her throat. Villanelle was a collector. She was simply here to collect. 

“Bidding will start on the bell. Raise your flag and state your bid to increase the bid. Once the retainer, the minimum payment, has been reached, I will inform you all that the item is now officially on the market,” Eve explained, and pointed her eyes at Hugo, “good luck.”

Hugo rang the bell shortly, and hands shot up. 

“One-hundred,” was the first bid, Nancy from down the road. Eve grimaced. Not a great starting bid, but it could be worse. 

“One-hundred. Nancy, Nancy…” Hugo added helpfully, “alright, one-hundred, not retainer, keep at it―”

“One thousand,” interjected Bill next. Bill was another Albuquerque native, and as close as Eve had to a friend here, outside Hugo. He was also an antique fiend, and he and Eve had spent many nights sipping ale and talking shop. Eve was surprised to see him price so high, but then again, he knew better than anyone that the piece was invaluable. 

“A thousand five hundred,” quickly came in another buyer. Eve didn’t recognize them. Short and sweaty. 

“Not retainer,” Hugo continued.

“A thousand seven hundred,” another hand shot up.

Eve was getting nervous. The piece was gaining momentum, but it needed to hold it. Once it hit retainer, the piece’s worth was known, and bidding could die out fast. They needed someone to hit high, now.

“A thousand eight hundred,” another out-of-towner. Fitted suit and deep pockets. He looked calm, like that was throwaway money. It set Eve’s sixth sense afire, and she gave Hugo a knowing look. 

“Come on guys, really?” Hugo bluffed, “alright, a thousand eight hundred,  _ not _ retainer. Let me remind you, this man, a famous French designer, was murdered in his own home, and this chair was one of the  _ only _ pieces remaining in his collection―”

All of a sudden, Villanelle’s hand was in the air. Eve felt time slow. Villanelle’s eyes weren’t on the chair at all, they were on Eve, an unreadable expression on her face. 

“I agree, let’s not play games. Twenty-five thousand,” she said simply. The crowd went cold as ice, and Eve’s stomach plummeted, her ears ringing. Had she heard that right? She felt her knees buckle a bit, and grabbed at the table in-front of her. Twenty five thousand. Twenty five thousand dollars? There was no way. Eve swore Villanelle was grinning at her, just in the slightest. 

Ever the adaptable auctioneer, Hugo just smiled and repeated the bid, “Right-o. Finally, the retainer has been reached. Twenty-five thousand. Eve―”

“The piece is now on the market,” Eve said, as strong as she could muster. The crowd, before silent, erupted in murmurs. Buyers looked to each other in disbelief, then back at the chair, as if it might sprout legs. Seconds passed, and then to Eve’s enormous surprise, a different hand shot up.

“Forty-thousand,” it was the out-of-towner from before. He looked intrigued now, properly invested. His eyebrows were creased. His companion, most likely an assistant, began to flip wildly through her phone.

Villanelle’s hand again, “Fifty thousand,” she said with a shrug. Eve was trembling now, just in the slightest. She couldn’t tell from what―the sight of Villanelle, the ease with which she threw out figures, the way her eyes stayed pointed to Eve, like she wasn’t buying the chair, but buying something else entirely. It could also be that she just effectively made fifty thousand dollars, and rising. 

The man seemed annoyed by this turn of events, and he turned to his assistant and growled something low, making her search her phone even more furiously. They needed to end this soon, before he got some kind of information that wouldn’t serve them well. 

“Sixty thousand,” he said, with a tone of finality that Eve could sense. She looked at Villanelle, and knew in that instant that she could sense it in his voice too. They both knew this game well. Too well. For the first time in a long time, Eve couldn’t sense someone’s next move. Villanelle was unreadable.

“Sixty thousand, going once, going twice―” Hugo repeated, surveying the crowd. No movement. 

Villanelle turned to Eve and smiled. Eve expected her to raise her hand, to outbid the man and be done with it. She had told Eve as many times, she came here to win. The chair was hers. But as Hugo counted, Villanelle sat still. The only movement was in the twitch of her lips, the crease in her eyes as she looked and looked and  _ looked _ at Eve.

“Sixty-thousand, final bid, to bidder number thirty-two. The Chaise is yours, my friend. I hope you enjoy sitting, err, organically.”

Number thirty-two smiled confidently, tugging at his suit trousers. His assistant looked relieved, settling into her chair with a sigh. The crowd, per usual, broke into a short bout of applause. It was Albuquerque tradition, and Eve could tell Villanelle was mystified by it, her eyebrows raised. But Eve was doubly mystified by Villanelle. She had given the chair away, just like that. She lost, willingly. Eve knew that Villanelle could have afforded it if she wanted. She could just tell. So why? Eve bit her lip tightly. She already knew the question would consume her.

After sorting out the details with the winner, Eve began to clean up. Most of the crowd had dispersed, save a few chatty locals. The sun was setting now, a beautiful red hue painting the scenery around them. 

“Well, that was exciting.”

Eve jumped at the voice from behind her, dropping a folding chair to the ground. Villanelle laughed, eyes creesed, standing a foot behind Eve with a beer in one hand. 

“I had no idea you were still here.”

“Of course,” Villanelle said, confused, “leave after a show like that? I wanted an autograph.”

Eve laughed, despite herself. This woman was full of surprises.

“Really? Even though you lost?”

“Lost?” Villanelle was aghast, “I didn’t lose.”

“You realize you didn’t win, right?” 

Villanelle smiled softly, and it made Eve’s heart clench. She didn’t look like any of the things she thought she would. Not boastful or angry or defensive. She just looked happy, satisfied. After a beat, Villanelle shrugged.

“I weighed my options, and I chose the better one.”

“Oh?”

Villanelle took a sip of her beer, and Eve wished she had one too. She wished she had three, and a vodka cranberry.

“I noticed that man early on. I could tell he was the type, you know,” Villanelle said.

Eve did know, “you can spot them too, huh?”

“Of course,” Villanelle’s eyes shimmered, “we are both very good at this, Eve. He is one of those collectors who buys because something is expensive, not because it is good. You could tell from the terrible suit. Jeez.”

Eve laughed, incredulous, “right. But the only reason he bought the piece was because you made it look expensive. The starting bids were low as shit, Villanelle.”

“Yes, unbelievably. That starting woman was so old, she probably thought she was bidding on a tennis racket.”

They grinned at each-other, and that familiar feeling was back, the high tug on her heartstrings, the gentle pull. 

“Why did you bid so high?”

“Because I can tell value, Eve, duh.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit.”

“You raised right at the retainer. Spiked the price right before people figured out how much it was worth. I know you did. How did you know it? Did Hugo tell you?” Eve said accusingly, stepping into Villanelle’s space. The other woman grinned, her eyebrows raised.

“Did I? That is quite the accusation Eve. Don’t you think it is more likely that someone might, I don’t know, overhear you loudly squabbling with Hugo in an open parking lot?”

Eve grimaced. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t the most discreet person, but.

“I think that person would have to be eavesdropping,” Eve said, eyes narrowing.

Putting on her worst American accent, Villanelle mimicked, “ _ Hugo, if you don’t get those chairs in a line, you can pay me two-thousand dollars out of pocket _ !”

Eve groaned. She needed to buy herself a muzzle.

“Ok, even if you did… overhear things. Which, by the way, not cool,” Eve pointed at her, and Villanelle’s eyebrows raised comically, “that doesn’t explain why you would raise the bid like that. All you did was make it more expensive for yourself.  _ Especially  _ if you spotted Mr. Boy-Man-Ego over there. You knew once he caught on that it might be worth something, he’d keep raising the bar.”

“Oh, did I?” 

“Yes. Why would you―”

Then it clicked, and Eve’s stomach dropped.

“You were never going to buy it.”

“Well, I  _ was _ , at first. It was a very nice chair,” Villanelle shrugged, “I knew I could get it. Probably for retainer, too. But I saw a better opportunity arise.”

“Which was?”

“For you to buy yourself some vacation time, of course.”

Eve’s stomach dropped. What? Villanelle looked almost vulnerable, then, and Eve couldn’t tell if she was imagining it. Her tone had been humorous, but her eyes were full, her cheeks heated. Why would she do that for her? Everything about Villanelle had screamed narcissist, egotistical, charisma bordering on psychopathic. What was she playing at?

“Why would you do that?” Eve said weakly, voice flitting between angry, confused, and grateful, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?” Villanelle asked, genuinely confused, “you seem like you needed some time off. Plus, it was not totally selfless.”

And there it was―the other shoe. Eve calmed down, her exploding nerves settling in her chest. Villanelle being surprisingly soft, Villanelle being caring, looking at her with those gentle eyes and cupid-bow lips―that was too much. Eve couldn’t process it, couldn’t dwell on it. Not with the beating in her chest, or the way her nerves pricked at every glance from the blonde. Villanelle being conniving, calculating, planning―that she could handle. 

“Oh?” Eve said, hands on hips.

If Eve wasn’t totally overwhelmed, she might think about how nervous Villanelle looked, the subtle change in demeanor, the vulnerability in her pose, feet rocking back and forth. 

“I want you to help me with a client.”

“What?” Eve hadn’t expected that. Her heart picked up again.

Villanelle laughed, then, “you are so surprising, Eve. You are a collector, too, you know. A different kind. And I like the way you think, the way your mind works. This client is very valuable to me, and I can tell she is boring of my usual finds. I need a new pair of eyes on the case, that is all.”

_ That is all _ . The words are both stinging and sweet. A promise that they’ll see each-other, should Eve accept; it was an offering as well as a regulation. A boundary that already felt weak at the foundation.

Eve took a full minute to process the statement. She liked the way her mind worked?

She felt a lightness in her chest. She refused to acknowledge it.

“Just think about it, okay?” Villanelle grinned, leaving Eve in her silence, “and maybe buy yourself some new clothes with that money. I’m sure you would look good in a different outfit once a week.”

Eve breathed in and rolled her eyes. Playful banter, she could do.

“Your feedback is appreciated,” she said, in her best customer service drawl. Villanelle smiled wider.

“Good.”

“Good,” Eve echoed, “I’ll… think about it.”

Eve realized too soon that she was talking at air, as Villanelle was already halfway across the parking lot, waving to Eve too-cheerily as she leaned against her ferrari. 

“Thanks again for the show, Eve!” Villanelle called out before slamming the door shut.

The realization crossed Eve’s mind, then, that the chair was the last thing from her mind. An item she had thought about for months, poured over in excruciating detail, had merely been a transaction. Like her Dad always said, the item was irrelevant―it was about the silent conversation, the give and take, the lightning strike. To her dismay, Eve knew in that moment that he was right: Villanelle had been bidding on something unseen. And Eve had let her win it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a blast to write. Auctions are actually very intense and sort of sexy. Like, who would have thought, yaknow?


	4. The Villa

If there was one thing Eve could recognize, it was a precipice.

That fleeting moment that divided two chapters in a life. To most people, it was imperceivable. A burnt egg on a stovetop. A dirty look from across the bar. A motorbike, speeding past, paying no mind to the traffic laws.

But Eve wasn’t most people. She could count these chapters on one hand, could recount every detail of the moments that transpired between them. 

In her marriage, the precipice was a chair, broken at the leg. She had tossed it across the kitchen, knocked it straight into a mirror. Shattered it. The floor was glass shards, her husband’s face was a Picasso painting. Imperceivable, haunted, revealing. Their eyes met in the reflection of the glass and Eve felt it instantly, like a page flipping. 

“I’m done,” he said, and Eve agreed. She took her car keys, a bag, and walked.

Onto the next.

She hadn’t quite felt the sensation since―that terrible wobbling, like her life was coming apart at the seams, unraveling towards a new destination. Ever since the divorce, the theme of her life, of this tenuous chapter, had been control. Desperate, tightly-held control. It was hard to perceive from the outside, but Eve knew it, felt it in her voice, the way it sometimes trembled, in her hands, the way they coiled around her possessions like vines around ruined buildings. 

Yet Eve sat staring at her phone, and here it was. That disruptive, enormous feeling. And for the first time, Eve had no idea what to do with it. 

“Have you made up your mind yet?” Hugo groaned. The shop had just closed, and Eve had spent a good part of an hour stuck in the same position, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders hunched, frown deepening. Hugo was about to blow a fuse.

“About what?” Eve said, sparing him a glance.

He raised abruptly from his chair, throwing his hands up, “Are you shitting me? About Villanelle.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eve grumbled.

“You’ve been staring at your phone for a literal hour. What else would you be doing?”

“I’m checking stocks.”

“You don’t own stocks, Eve.”

Eve frowned, “I could own stocks.”

“Ok, so what are you investing in?”

Eve bit her lip. Hugo raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Home Depot?”

Hugo laughed indignantly, shaking his head and stealing Eve’s phone out of her hands.

“Hey!” Eve yelped.

“Ah, Eve, I should have never doubted you. Is this a direct line to Mr Depot himself?” Hugo grinned, turning the phone to face Eve. Naturally, it was Villanelle’s phone number. Eve had found it inscribed in sharpie on the bottom of the woman’s discarded beer can. Which, for the record, is probably the smarmiest way ever to give someone your phone number. Eve rolled her eyes.

“Whatever,” she said, putting her hands up, “I just feel like I owe her one, or something. She basically made me rich overnight. I could forget about this dumb store for a whole month with that money. I could literally set it on fire myself and scrap the insurance.”

Hugo laughed, “sixty thousand dollars in the bank, and that’s where your mind goes?”

Eve smirked, “obviously. What’s more fun than arson?”

“I’m seeing our previous discussion in a new light,” Hugo narrowed his eyes, “but hey, I say go for it. You obviously want to get in this woman’s pants ASAP. Why not add a fun layer of business partner roleplay?”

Eve groaned and snatched the phone back. 

“I do _not_ want to get in her pants. They probably cost more than I do. _And_ she’d probably sue me for tearing them.”

“Are you kidding? She’d probably thank you,” Hugo grinned, “have you seen the way she looks at you? Makes even _me_ blush.”

Eve felt heat rise to her face, bubble under her skin. Did she really? Eve knew Villanelle was toying with her―playing games, certainly. She was the type to run conversations in circles, to make you feel like you are always catching up. But that was all they were―tricks, mind games. For all she knew, Villanelle was as straight as a ruler.

Ok, even Eve knew that was embarrassingly stupid. 

“Get your eyes checked,” Eve said, responding much too late. Hugo had already migrated back to his original position, book in hand, expression barely dignifying her defensiveness.

“Back atcha, grannie,” he hummed, turning the page again.

And as much as Eve wanted to deny it, that’s what this was―the page turning. 

She grabbed her phone and pushed her way through the door. It took all of five seconds for the line to click.

“Well hi there, stranger.”

Eve stared at herself in the window’s reflection, and thought one thing in singularity:

_Fuck._

***

In her brief time in Albuquerque, Villanelle had so far learned three things:

  1. The burritos were excellent.


  1. (an addendum) _John’s_ burritos were excellent. Allen’s were utter shit.


  1. Eve, owner of E’s Artifacts, was very attractive, and equally as interesting.



Villanelle gripped the steering wheel and turned off the highway. Exit 21 led her down a winding road of dirt and pavement, steering her for miles until she reached the private residence she’d been searching for. Carpeted on all sides by white tile, the Villa was exactly as audacious as she hoped. It made her heart flutter―the tall, gold-tipped fences, the silver door knobs. It was snobbishly gorgeous.

In another life, Villanelle might have killed the poor owner and stole the deed. Ok, so maybe it wouldn’t take _another_ life, per se. She was certainly morally grey enough to do it in this one. She just wasn’t in the mood. She was wearing a perfectly nice outfit. Not to mention that she hadn’t yet figured Eve’s stance on murder. 

Villanelle sighed. She’d add that to the list of questions she would get to asking her. Maybe after their obligatory discussion on dogs versus cats.

“So Villanelle, do you like the place?”

Strong arms welcomed her through the doorway, pulling her into a tight, familiar hug. Villanelle inhaled. Konstantin’s smell was comforting, the scent of a tamed bear, the kind that you’d keep around the house, feed it fish from the river. 

“Duh,” she grinned, patting him once on the scruffy face, “I was just thinking about killing you for it.”

He faked horror, “you would never.”

“No promises,” she laughed, giggling like a child. Konstantin brought it out of her. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to a parental figure, and sometimes she enjoyed pretending like he was one. 

“So? Did you get the chair?”

Villanelle frowned, “all business. No ‘how are you, Villanelle? You look so nice today in that Marc Jacobs dress, Villanelle?’”

Konstantin was unmoved, “not when the client is moving in two weeks from now, no. And you are fine. I can tell.”

“I am not fine. I am very sad, actually.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I _am_ ,” she stressed, pressing her lips together and forcing tears to bubble easily from her eyes. 

Konstantin laughed. Villanelle frowned.

“You should have been an actress.”

Villanelle couldn’t help but grin―a compliment. The tears dried up almost as fast as they arrived.

“I will be, in retirement,” she smirked, then yawned, “I am tiring of this work. Maybe I will retire sooner rather than later.”

“Funny,” Konstantin shook his head, “you can retire once you’ve completed this contract. And we both know without Martens, no one would pay your bills. She and her secret service money are the reason you get to wear that dress.”

Villanelle ignored him, “so you like the dress.”

“You are very annoying today.”

“Maybe,” she grinned, “but very gorgeous, too. Thank you for noticing.”

Konstantin shook his head. Sometimes he questioned his choice in protege. But not really―he knew that the words were all a front. Behind the ego, Villanelle was talented, almost effortlessly so. She had a sixth sense about design, about spaces. Exquisite taste. 

“So the chair?” He tried again.

“No chair,” she shrugged, “wasn’t a match for Martens.”

Konstantin groaned, “two weeks, Villanelle. You are behind.”

“I will manage,” Villanelle said innocently, “and I have extra help now. We will work at double the speed, like ninjas.”

Now this was different. Konstantin raised an eyebrow.

“Extra help? You work alone.”

“Says who?”

“You. Over and over again. Do you not remember when I made you manage that trainee for a day? He nearly died.”

“His fault,” Villanelle grumbled, “sometimes glass just shatters.”

“Yes, especially when you throw things at it.”

Villanelle rolled her eyes.

“Well, you are wrong. There is a woman, Eve. She has very good taste, almost as good as mine. Not in outfits, though. She looks like a farmer most of the time.”

Konstantin lifted an eyebrow, “almost as good as yours? That is the highest compliment I think I’ve ever heard you pay. Are you sure you’re talking about _just_ taste?”

Villanelle bit her lip, “she is very pretty, too, but that is irrelevant.”

Konstantin groaned again, throat nearly hoarse, “Villanelle―”

“ _You are going to get yourself in trouble again_ ,” Villanelle mocked, slurring his accent, “you are so dull with your phrases. Read a dictionary. I am perfectly capable.”

“I know you are capable,” he emphasized, “but you are also reckless. This is our most important client. If we lose her, your paycheck is dimes. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I do,” Villanelle huffed, crossing her arms.

“Right,” he laughed.

***

Eve had no idea what she was doing.

Villanelle’s instructions had been unclear at best. Take the highway as far as it would go? Who says that? The highway literally never stops, it just exits. That’s literally the whole point.

She had been driving for nearly an hour when she found the exit. Just as Villanelle had described it―a dirt road that popped out of nothingness, canopied by trees and foliage. It seemed to go on forever until it didn't, abruptly transforming from dirt and rock to cobblestone and tile. Eve’s eyes went wide. Wow.

Now this was a house.

“Impressive, yes?” Villanelle grinned. Eve yelped in surprise, not expecting the woman to already be at her side window. Eve shook her head and stared daggers at her, shoving the door open.

“Do your footsteps even make sound?”

“No,” Villanelle smiled, “years of practice. I move like a mouse.”

“Practice? For what? Sneaking up on people?”

Villanelle laughed, just a bit manic. It made Eve’s heart do something akin to a little dance, “yes, why else? It is fun to see the look on their faces.”

“You’re going to give some old woman a heart attack someday.”

“I can only dream.”

Eve shook her head, biting down on her lip. A sentence like that really shouldn’t make her smile.

***

After a healthy amount of bickering by the car, Eve let Villanelle lead her into the Villa. They passed silently through the arches, the fences, the elaborate gardens. All the while Villanelle watched Eve, took in the way her lips parted, the awe in her eyes. She could tell Eve liked it too, the extravagance. Behind the tacky clothes and gorgeously unkempt hair, there was a longing there―an ache for something: power, money, majesty? The thought stung Villanelle, a pleasant sort of sting. She wanted Eve to have all of it. 

She wanted to give it to her.

“This place is amazing,” Eve said, eyes hazy. Konstantin had long gone, leaving the two of them alone in the football field of a living room. In stark contrast to the exterior, the rooms were empty, save a few luxurious carpets and a fresh coat of wall paint. Eve was barely paying Villanelle any attention, her eyes surveying the room, hands running over any surface she could touch.

“Any reason you’re feeling up the wallpaper?”

“God, first Hugo and now you. Why does everyone always say that?” Eve groaned, finally stepping away from the wall, “I’m just a hands-on person. Is that a crime?”

Villanelle smirked, and Eve instantly knew she had made a mistake. 

“Hands-on, huh?”

“Yes,” Eve’s cheeks were red, “whatever.”

“I can’t wait to see just how hands-on you are,” Villanelle stepped in closer. Eve stepped an inch back, and Villanelle watched her blink, slowly, thinking, “you know, with the decor.” 

“You’re so annoying,” Eve rolled her eyes, but her voice betrayed her slightly.

“And you’re rude,” Villanelle shrugged.

“Yup.”

Villanelle smiled. Talking to Eve reminded her of badminton. She just had to keep the birdie in play, strike hard but not too hard. Keep things light, always in the air.

“By the way, you are terrible at giving directions,” Eve interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from Villanelle’s thinly veiled flirting.

“Am not,” Villanelle pouted, “aren’t you here right now?”

“Barely,” Eve narrowed her eyes, “seriously, how do you expect me to be able to read Russian? _And_ french? Do you carry around eight dictionaries?”

“Oh,” Villanelle said, wrinkling her nose in confusion, “that was actually not on purpose. Sometimes when I am thinking in one language and writing in another, my brain gets confused.”

Eve balked at her, “are you telling me you speak three languages?”

Villanelle laughed, “no, of course not. I speak eight.”

Eve just blinked at her. It was times like these that Villanelle’s penchant for reading people utterly failed her. Villanelle studied her face, waited for the micro-movements of the eyes, the lips, the dimple under her chin. Nothing. Eve’s mind was unknowable. Well, sometimes.

Sometimes her facial expressions could probably be seen from space.

“You’re fucking with me,” she said finally, and shook her head.

“Nope,” Villanelle shrugged, popping the p.

“Seriously?”

“Si, seriamente,” Villanelle grinned, and walked off.

Eve huffed loudly, and followed her into the next room.

***

The tour of the house took almost an hour. The place was gigantic. But, in all honesty, most of the time was spent in ceaseless conversation. Once Eve’s brain started turning, it didn’t stop. She could envision the whole place, fill it with things: chairs, tables, grandfather clocks. The ideas spilled out of her brain directly though her mouth, every inch of space an inspiration. To Eve’s chagrin, Villanelle seemed to find it deeply amusing.

“You are so spunky,” Villanelle said, wiggling her eyebrows, “I should take you to empty houses more often. Maybe you’ll start dancing.”

Eve rolled her eyes, “I am not _spunky_. This place is just insane. I want to decorate it until I die.”

“Great,” Villanelle grinned, clapping her hands, “that was easier than I thought it would be. I didn’t even have to shake you.”

“Shake me? What―”

“Figure of speech.”

“No it’s not.”

“In Dutch it is,” Villanelle shrugged, wearing a dumb grin.

“I don’t have to speak Dutch to know that’s not true,” Eve said, biting down a smile not for the first time. She despised the way her walls were crumbling, one by one. Talking to Villanelle was just so―easy wasn’t the word. Fluid? Natural? Free-falling at one-hundred miles per hour?

She didn’t know why she was so hesitant. It’s not like Eve had no friends. She had friends. And she’d had business partners, too. She could call Hugo that. (Key word: _could_ ) And she’s definitely found people attractive before. Hell, she found the cashier at Walmart attractive this morning. It wasn’t the end of the world.

But ever since Niko… Eve inhaled, and watched Villanelle’s eyes watch her in turn. Something in Eve was shut tight, padlocked. Villanelle looked too much like a lockpick, slender and smooth, illegally so. But thoughts were just thoughts, and she wasn’t going to make the wrong choice twice. 

She looked back at Villanelle’s face, and ached. There was no other word for it. 

Maybe there wasn’t any choice in this, Eve thought, an itch clawing at her. Maybe―

Villanelle’s eyes were on her lips. Shit. How long had Eve been staring at her?

“I am glad you want to work together,” Villanelle whispered, so soft it nearly broke Eve. God―this unexpected softness, this is what would kill her. Age her until she was creaking bones. The way Villanelle sounded so genuine, so curious, so interested. Not a lockpick, but a key.

“Why do you even want to work with me?” Eve questioned, “I’m sure you could more than handle this place yourself.”

Villanelle’s eyes furrowed. She contemplated the question.

“I do not want to work alone anymore,” she said simply, lip bitten, “I would like a… friend. To work with. A talented friend.”

Eve swallowed. A talented friend. She wanted to laugh. So that’s what they were. Talented friends who worked together. Because they were talented.

“Okay,” Eve said, like the air had been knocked out of her, “okay.”

Villanelle grinned, a genuine grin, reaching her eyes and nearly her forehead. Eve didn’t smile back, except she did. Just a little. 

“So we’re doing it, then?” Villanelle said excitedly.

“Yeah, okay, fuck it!” Eve said, raising her hands.

Villanelle jumped―literally jumped―and then curled around Eve, pulling her into a hug that hurtled Eve’s heart through her chest. It wasn’t even long, maybe just five seconds, but Eve could have counted those five seconds over and over again, made them last for a year, a millenia, Villanelle’s hands scratching into her back, holding onto the fabric of her sweater like it might fall off.

“We are going to be such a good team,” Villanelle said, somewhere between a laugh and a wistful sigh.

Eve inhaled sharply. “Whatever you say.”

Eve wasn’t ready for how literally she meant that sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're going to make such a good team guys !!! we love talented friends


	5. Sandia Peak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of a parent passing away

Villanelle stared at the ceiling, and sighed. Heavily. She looked down at her phone screen. Nothing. Utter emptiness, save her wallpaper: two lone dandelions in a field of roses. She put her phone down and stared at the ceiling again. In the wee hours of the morning, she found that her brain felt rather like puddy. Mushy and elastic, unconcentrated. She flitted between memories, some hard and painful and aged, others soft, recent, electrifying. The wallpaper on her ceiling began to look sentient, clawing at her with patterned hands. She frowned.

Villanelle had a problem; she was sleepless, restless, hopelessly awake. She was not used to this feeling. Most nights, once her eyes were closed, her mind followed. She operated like clockwork, a carefully programmed metronome. 

But tonight was different. No matter what she did, how many mathematical exercises or philosophical problems she retreaded, analyzed until she wanted to tear her hair out in boredom, her mind circled back to a face; no―lips, a smile. Eve. The mere mention of her name sent a shiver down her spine, by God. Villanelle’s heart had raced for women before, of course. She was no stranger to lust, to want, to the gnawing desire to press a woman up against the wall, drag her fingers down her waist, around her hip bones…

Villanelle groaned. This was unhelpful. Now she was awake _and_ turned on. 

But this felt… different? Villanelle pursed her lips. It was an odd situation, that was all. She was unused to wanting a woman and also, maybe, moderately enjoying her presence. Eve was not so bad to talk to. And she was great at her job, just as Villanelle was at hers. It was a work-like respect, accompanied by an unhelpful need to smother her in hands and lips.

Then her phone dinged. Villanelle’s pulse nearly jumped out of her neck. Could she really have―at this hour―had Eve read her mind?

_From your daily portfolio update:_

_AAPL shares are up 3%_

Villanelle threw her phone across the bed, and groaned into her pillow.

***

Eve stared at her analog bedroom clock: 2:34 AM. Christ.

She wrapped her pillow tightly around her head, and closed her eyes again. This was the fourth night this week she couldn’t sleep. Eve was a restless person in general, but she took her sleep very seriously. She had tried and failed to knock herself out with a variety of sleep-inducers. All she had managed to do was set herself into a mildly disorienting haze, images swirling in and out of focus. 

No matter how many pills she took, she couldn’t stop thinking about her.

It wasn’t just her, it was the house. It was her _in_ the house. Being in that space, it just _reeked_ of grandeur. Standing in that too-large living room, Eve felt power shoot through her veins like she had been hung up to an IV. 

But the house had nothing on the woman occupying it. She stood there, poised and overconfident, like the eye of a tornado, but two times as dangerous. 

In her mind’s eye, the house had collapsed into one large room, and Villanelle stood at the center. She wore her usual garb―something low-cut, over-priced. Her hair was down, like it so often was, infuriatingly sleek. She was staring at Eve with the smallest smirk, a knowing smirk. She was staring at Eve like she was living inside her, like she had dug Eve inside-out, her organs, her heart, her sins and her innermost desires laid flat on Villanelle’s palms. And then she whispered:

_This is who you are. This is what you want. Don’t you see?_

***

This is how Villanelle dealt with a problem: systematically.

She gazed at her watch. It was morning now, and her eyes were tired. 

Under her thumb was a pen, and she hovered it over a sheet of paper. She was lounging at her desk, one foot propped over another. She chewed on her bottom lip and thought. 

_Problem: Can’t sleep._

She looked proudly at her paper. The first step was always the hardest, and she had done it. She continued.

_Reason:_

Villanelle frowned. There was no good reason. She simply could not sleep. It was not like there was something keeping her up, incessantly. It was not like she had thought about how warm she felt hugging Eve, how light and safe and weirdly tingly. It was not like she was _obsessed_ with the way that Eve had fallen into her, had sighed so lightly and happily that it felt like cotton candy and magic.

Villanelle’s frown deepened. 

_Reason: hug?_

Villanelle stared daggers at the page.

***

“You look… weird,” Hugo said.

“What does that even mean?” Eve grunted, hoisting herself up on her stool. Getting up today had been difficult, to say the least. She had woken up an hour late and had to skip her breakfast burrito. Basically a terrible start to the day.

“You look tired. Somehow more tired than you usually look, which I didn’t think was possible,” Hugo chuckled, and Eve rolled her eyes, “but you also walked in here weirdly enthusiastically. I think I saw you skip towards the store. So basically I’m afraid for my life.”

“I didn’t skip.”

“Would you prefer galloped?”

“Please go back to being afraid for your life,” Eve groaned.

“Maybe when you go back to normal,” Hugo grimaced, “I’m uncomfortable with these new developments in your personality.”

Eve scoffed. There had been no… developments. She felt the same, wore the same shoes, socks, turtle-neck and Target dungarees. So what if she had fallen asleep and woken up to the same thought, the same pair of electric green eyes. So what if that thought and those eyes had followed her to the bathroom, down the highway, driven itself into her parking space. It was just a stupid _thought,_ about a stupid, stupid…

Eve’s jaw went slack. Was she hallucinating? 

“Eugene! You are looking awake today,” Villanelle grinned, shutting the door behind her in one swift motion. Hugo jumped out of his seat a whole inch, his book flying out of his lap.

“Jesus! Can you warn a man, next time? And it’s _Hugo―”_

“Ah,” Villanelle nodded thoughtfully, clicking her tongue, “Hugene, gotcha.”

“No, it’s not short for… that’s not even a real name, Christ―”

Eve was still in a stupor when Villanelle turned to her. It reminded her eerily of when they first met, the way that Villanelle’s attention snapped to her, how her eyes made her feel like she was the only person in the room, the shop, the whole damn city of Albuquerque. 

“Hi. Um. Did you need something?” Eve said, slightly speechless. She had seen this woman’s face so much in her head, it almost felt too much to see it in person, like a ghost jumping out of a corpse. 

Villanelle frowned, “you don’t sound so happy to see me, Eve.”

Eve contemplated this. She wasn’t… not happy. She was just affronted. 

“I’m… I’m fine,” Eve scoffed, “I just didn’t expect to see you so soon.” 

Villanelle shook her head, “you should be more receptive of your business partner. We are allies. Teammates. I’ve got your back, you’ve got mi―”

“We’re decorating a house, Villanelle. Not starting a soccer team.”

Villanelle smirked, “takes the same skill set. Two very _hands-on_ people.”

Eve inhaled, cheeks reddening, “you _know_ what I meant. Plus, that’s actually the opposite of what you need for a soccer team…”

“Yeah, the whole point is to be hands- _off_ ,” Hugo chimed in, grinning at Eve like he had just won the lottery. Eve made a mental note to kill him, eventually. 

“Is he always this annoying?” Villanelle rolled her eyes. 

“Excuse me, that is bold―”

“Yes, he is,” Eve grinned, just a little. Villanelle grinned back. Hugo was saying something, but Eve couldn’t hear it. Villanelle’s presence had that deafening effect on her. 

“Well, are you busy?”

“I own and operate a shop that’s open Monday through Friday, so,” Eve deadpanned.

“So?”

“So yes, I’m busy.”

“You don’t look that busy,” Villanelle frowned.

“She isn’t,” Hugo chimed in. 

“What do you _want_?” Eve said, equal parts exasperated and giddy. Villanelle smirked at her. 

“Well, I thought we could take a drive, that’s all. Some business partner bonding. Get to know each other, chit chat.”

Eve’s eyebrows furrowed, “a drive? To where? Walmart?”

Villanelle looked utterly scandalized, “please don’t tell me you shop there,” she begged.

Eve scoffed, “Are you even surprised?”

“Yes. Yes I am. And disappointed.”

“Really?”

“Okay, I am not surprised,” Villanelle yielded, rolling her eyes and waving towards Eve’s general outfit, “but you really shouldn’t be so proud of it. Their labor practices, Eve… a horror.”

Eve balked, “since when were you all about morals? You basically framed my last auction.”

“I did _not_ ,” Villanelle tutted, slapping Eve’s hand playfully, “it would have only been illegal if you knew I had set it up for you. Without your consent, I was simply having fun.”

 _Having fun_. Eve shook her head.

“Your idea of a good time is shelling out forty thousand dollars?”

“Um, yes,” Villanelle grinned, “and yours isn’t?”

Eve opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn’t even have an argument for that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hugo looking at her. She knew instantly what he was trying to say, and Eve frowned. No, she would not leave this store. She had a business to run. She had a schedule, an agenda. She would not let Villanelle upend her entire day on a whim.

“I can look after the place,” Hugo shrugged, like the decision was already made, “no one comes in on Tuesdays anyway.”

“See, Eve? Look what dedicated employees you have,” Villanelle said, half-mocking, “come on, big boss lady. Take a drive with me.”

“Nope,” Eve said.

“What if I told you there was a warm burrito from John’s sitting in the cupholder?”

Eve bit her lip, and groaned. Her stomach grumbled, almost on cue. Traitorous body.

“No,” Eve said weakly.

“I got extra sauce,” Villanelle whispered, almost salacious. It was somehow the sexiest thing she’d said to Eve yet.

“Fuck. Fine,” Eve surrendered, hopping off the stool and grabbing her bag. She pushed past Villanelle, opening the door with a hard yank, “Hugo, don’t start any fires.” 

“Won’t let you down, boss,” he grinned, saluting her with boyish arrogance. Eve just shook her head. 

***

It was only after Eve had finished off her burrito, lost in a satiated daze, that she realized she still had no clue where they were going. Her surroundings suddenly came crashing in: the proximity of their bodies, just inches away in the confines of the front seats, the reverberations of cement under tires as they shot down the highway at totally unsafe speeds. 

Eve took in the interior. It was light pink, dark grey. Sunlight reflected everywhere, hitting the highlights of Villanelle’s cheekbones, underlining her jaw. Eve swallowed. The ferrari, too, was gorgeous―ostentatious, of course, but boasting with energy, a raw extension of Villanelle’s personality. 

“I see you’re awake,” Villanelle laughed.

“What? I wasn’t asleep.”

“Eve, when you’re eating one of those burritos, you teleport somewhere else. You didn’t even blink when we ran over that squirrel.”

“What?” Eve yelped, throwing the burrito’s tinfoil shell directly at Villanelle’s side. Villanelle squealed.

“Eve! Driver safety,” Villanelle faked horror, tossing the tinfoil back at her, “I was _kidding_. But not about the burrito thing. That part is totally true.”

“Can you blame me? They’re otherworldly” Eve grumbled, a small smile stuck reluctantly to her lips. 

“No,” Villanelle agreed, “those burritos are better than… other burritos.”

“I’m guessing you’ve tried Allen’s.”

“Yes,” Villanelle grimaced, “vile.”

Eve laughed at that, threw her head back. The way Villanelle enunciated the word, so serious and considered, it was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Eve said, involuntary.

Villanelle’s eyebrows shot up, but her eyes remained on the road ahead, “good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?”

Eve’s heart stammered. 

“Good ridiculous, I think,” she admitted, voice light, and stared ahead.

She pretended she didn’t see the way Villanelle smiled at that.

“You are good ridiculous, too,” Villanelle replied softly.

A few moments passed, and Eve soaked them in. She felt a suspicious calm settle over herself, a simple lightness. Villanelle’s words sat in the air around them, a declaration that meant nothing and also something. _Something_ , Eve thought, and tugged endlessly at the thought, hoping a revelation would fall out of it. 

“Do you like music?” Villanelle said, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Who doesn’t like music?” Eve laughed.

“Weirdos,” Villanelle responded.

“Exactly.”

“But you are a weirdo.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Villanelle grinned, and it was still so soft, contained. Eve was scared what might fall out of those lips, so she pushed on. 

“Turn something on,” Eve commanded.

Villanelle laughed, “ok, bossy. What kind of channel do you like?”

“How about you surprise me?” Eve said, without thinking. Everytime she wanted to make this conversation less loaded, she failed completely. It was like unloading a gun and pulling out a machete.

Villanelle grinned, tearing her eyes away from the street for a moment to look directly at her. 

“Okay, I will guess. I think I already know your tastes.”

“I doubt that.”

Villanelle fiddled with the radio, turning the knob endlessly, attempting to read Eve’s reactions through her peripheral vision. Eve kept her face a still line, giving nothing away.

“You are making this hard,” Villanelle frowned.

“I thought you already knew what I liked?”

Villanelle’s frown broke out into a confident smirk, “of course I do. I was just playing around.”

Villanelle’s fingers stilled, finally settling on a channel. It was an oldies channel, stuff straight out of the 40’s and 50’s. After a quick bout of advertising, a familiar song started playing.

_I don’t want to set the world on fire._

Eve froze. 

“How did you know?”

“The Ink Spots are a classic,” Villanelle shrugged, but she was obviously proud of herself.

_I don’t want to set the world on fire._

_I just want to start_

_A flame in your heart._

Villanelle hummed along happily to the music, head bobbing slowly to the tune. Eve’s heart thudded softly in her chest.

_I’ve lost all ambition._

_All worldly acclaim._

_I just want to be the one you love._

Villanelle sang along softly, and of course she would have the voice of an angel. Eve wanted to throw herself out the car door.

As they came to a red light, Villanelle tilted her head ever slightly. She looked at Eve, and smiled, her pupils dark, grey, dilated. Eve looked back, unabashed, unable to look away. 

“So you like that song?”

“I like the way you sang it,” Eve found herself saying.

Villanelle hadn’t expected that, her cheeks reddening. Eve saw her throat wobble.

“Oh,” she said, lips ajar.

Eve felt something undoing in her chest.

At that moment, Eve expected something to happen next. For Villanelle to lean in, to kiss her right there on the dashboard, to press their bodies up against the air conditioner. But the light turned green, and Villanelle simply turned back to the road. Not even a comment. Just… nothing.

Eve stared at the side of Villanelle’s face. Had she read this wrong?

She swallowed. What was she even reading? There was nothing to read. Fuck―where were they even _going_?

“We’re almost there,” Villanelle spoke. Eve laughed, incredulous at life and herself and _everything_.

“Almost where? Mars?”

“Patience, Eve. It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t usually like surprises from people I barely know. That’s how people get murdered.”

Where anyone else might have been offended at a comment like that, Villanelle laughed.

“You got me. I am taking you to my murder shed.”

“A shed? Don’t I deserve something at least a little more luxurious?”

“Hm. I can consider it. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, anything but a shed, Jesus. Murder ballroom. Murder bathtub―”

“Oh, _yes,_ I quite like that,” Villanelle said, genuinely excited, “I do have a thing for bathrooms.”

Eve filed that away for later. Or, um, no she didn’t. Nevermind. 

Six minutes of murder brainstorming later, they arrived at the west entrance of an enormous park, miles of dense foliage, brush, hills and mountains. Eve had barely noticed that the car had climbed miles from the ground, the city of Albuquerque sitting like an ant hill below them. Eve’s chest clenched. She recognized the view immediately. The sign beckoning them in read _Sandia Peak, two miles_. 

Villanelle noticed the way Eve’s face immediately fell, and frowned.

“What’s wrong? Are you scared of heights?”

Eve swallowed thickly, painful memories peeking out like light behind blinds. As Villanelle pulled into a parking space, Eve quickly unlocked the door and fell out into the open air. It was sweet, oaky, just as she remembered it. She felt light-headed.

“No,” Eve said, ice cold. Shit. She didn’t need this to come up, not now. It had been years, damn it. 

“You don’t like it? We can go back, see about that Walmart,” Villanelle laughed lightly, voice a soft, vulnerable mumble. Eve had never seen her look so unsure of herself. Usually built of careless confidence, this version of Villanelle looked like a barely-tethered Jenga tower. Eve wondered if Villanelle had always looked like this, if she simply had neglected to notice.

Under the right light, a pedestal and a facade had the same shadow.

“No, we’re already here,” Eve said, waving her hand at the suggestion. She blew past Villanelle, heading up the trail towards the oncoming peak. The mountain was famous for its tramway, a glass vehicle that descended miles from the mountain’s peak to the city below. It was a heavily attended tourist attraction, and usually bustling with families and screaming children. 

At one PM on a Tuesday, there was hardly a line. Villanelle must have planned the whole outing in advance, thought carefully about the timing.

Shit. 

“Eve, you do not seem happy to be here,” Villanelle assessed, doctorly, meeting Eve’s pace with ease. They came to stop at the start of the tram line, a two-minute wait. 

Just ahead of them was a steep drop, the peak’s end. Trees and hills for miles and miles, the distant city glowing from below. Eve’s ears rung, and she heard her Dad’s voice echoing there, hairs reverberating in memory.

“So beautiful,” he had said. And Eve had laughed, because he had seen the view a million times. Everytime, the same sentence. _So beautiful._ Seriously, he must have been there every Saturday in the calendar year. Yet his eyes glistened the same way every single weekend, his hands covering his mouth in surprise, like the cliffs and trees were a precious gift.

“I’m fine,” Eve responded, two beats too late. She could feel Villanelle’s eyes heating the back of her neck. A few minutes before, that would have sent a chill down her spine. Now it felt like a muffled itch―one she wanted so badly to scratch, but could not reach.

“Eve, you clearly are not―”

“Just drop it, okay?” Eve looked at her, stern but pleading, “I want to go on the tram.”

Villanelle worried her bottom lip. She looked out of breath, completely lost for words. 

“Of course. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. That’s why I wanted us to see it.”

 _Us_. It stung Eve, a wasp and a bee all at once. She said nothing. Villanelle let her. 

***

Villanelle did not know what to do with this Eve.

This Eve, who had receded so far into herself that Villanelle had been locked out, shut behind cold steel. This Eve, whose eyes watered just slightly at the mountains passing them by. This Eve, who slipped so quickly from talkative and warm, to silent, cold. 

Villanelle wanted so badly to touch her. To comb through her hair, scratch at her scalp and let her fold into Villanelle’s side. Villanelle’s breath hitched. This was an uncomfortably new experience.

“I’m sorry,” Eve said, suddenly. The tram shimmied dysfunctionally down its tracks.

“You’re… why are you sorry?” Villanelle asked. She was unused to people apologizing to her. It fell odd, misplaced. Eve turned to her and bit her lip. She wordlessly beckoned for Villanelle to join her by the tram’s window. Villanelle complied.

“I’m being a dick,” Eve said, staring out at the trees again. In the congested space of the tram, their hands brushed, arms pressed together. Villanelle felt the contact like fire.

“Maybe a little,” Villanelle said with a shrug, “but I don’t know why.”

“It’s not you.”

“Well that’s always reassuring.”

“It’s my Dad.”

“Your Dad?” Villanelle paused, looking to Eve’s face for a clearer picture. It revealed little. Eve’s eyes were barely open, squinting in something like memory. 

“Yeah,” Eve breathed out, “I used to take him here all the time. Every Saturday. It was kind of our thing.”

“Every Saturday?” Villanelle prodded, teasingly, “he must really like trees.”

“He did,” Eve chuckled, “like, weirdly so.”

 _Did_. Villanelle’s heart sank, a paperweight in her chest. She smiled softly, “it is not that weird.” She looked out at the view, admiring the slopes of the brush, the flowers that dotted the mountains, “this is a very nice view. He had good taste. Must not have been genetic.”

Eve laughed, and the sound of it filled Villanelle with a powerful lightness, a raw electricity. She wanted to make Eve do that again, and again. 

“He had terrible taste, actually,” Eve smiled wetly. Tears had formed properly under her eyes, and her hands were trembling, just slightly, “the shop nearly went out of business a billion times over before―”

Eve hiccuped, then sighed.

“Before I took over,” she finished.

Villanelle couldn’t tear her eyes away from Eve’s profile, the slight tremors in her throat. It made her heart ache. She wanted to make it better, somehow. She wanted to distract Eve from the pain, drown her in something else. 

Without thinking, she took Eve’s hand in her own. It was clumsy, more like a holding-on then a holding. She heard Eve hiccup, and then their fingers were intertwined. 

“I am so sorry, Eve,” Villanelle whispered, frowning softly. She stared at the window, but instead of seeing the trees, she saw only their reflection. She could see the tears in Eve’s eyes, steady but slowing. She saw the way her lip trembled. Most of all, she felt the way Eve’s fingers tightened around her own, holding onto her like a lifeboat.

“It’s fine,” Eve said, voice hardened. Villanelle was realizing slowly that understanding Eve could not be accomplished by looking or hearing alone. It took a total engagement of the senses―eyes, ears, _touch_. Her mouth told a different story than her fingers, her lips a different story than her eyes. 

“Okay,” Villanelle said with a nod, “but if it is not fine, that’s okay too.”

In Eve’s silence, Villanelle felt nothing but soft fingers, tightly coiled around her own. It was…

Villanelle sighed. 

This problem was going to get worse.

***

By the time they got back to the car, Eve felt better. A lot better. It was weird, like the weight cracking her spine had spread out, softened like a heavy blanket. Not gone, but bearable. Not haunting, but comforting. 

She had not expected Villanelle to touch her. She wanted to laugh, it was barely a touch, so light and platonic and sweet. But her hand had felt like an anchor, keeping her planted and firm. And God, Villanelle’s hands were so soft. But so _sturdy_. She had held them embarrassingly tight. 

Eve turned a mild shade of red. Like, really tight.

Not to mention that she hadn’t let go. In fact, fuck, she was still―

“Eve,” Villanelle laughed, “I kind of need my hand to drive. Unfortunately, it is the law.”

Eve let go all at once, reality catching up to her. 

“Shit―um,” was all she could manage, “I didn’t realize I was still…”

“It’s fine,” Villanelle smiled softly.

And fuck her for being that soft, and that sweet. She looked like a fucking angel. It was infuriating. 

They stepped into the car.

They existed in a comfortable silence as they descended the hill back towards the highway. Eve’s eyes were stuck to the window, watching as the scenery slid into the shadows. The dawn sun was beginning to roll down the hills. The days had been getting shorter and shorter, but this one felt spectacularly brief. Like a blip. She had literally spent morning, noon, night…

She turned to the other woman, and bit her lip.

“I can drive with one hand, if you’d like,” Villanelle teased, demonstrating.

“Shut up,” Eve rolled her eyes.

“Here,” Villanelle grinned and dropped her hand by the stickshift, “free real estate.”

Eve eyed it. Contemplated it. Nope. Absolutely not.

“You drive like a madman as it is,” she huffed.

“Please, I could drive with my eyes closed.”

Eve laughed, “oh yeah? Do you echolocate?”

“Of course. I am part bat. Do you not see it in my features?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“Stop,” Villanelle frowned, “I take it back. I do not want to be compared to a bat.”

Eve laughed, and warmth prickled all over her.

“Bats are kind of pretty,” Eve shrugged. 

Villanelle narrowed her eyes.

“You are not allowed to call me pretty inadvertently through bats.”

“Who said I was calling you pretty?”

“You called bats pretty…”

“I thought you just said―”

“You are so annoying,” Villanelle said, voice strained, “I do not need to call you a bat to call you pretty. You just are pretty.”

Eve froze. 

“You think _I’m_ pretty?” Eve said, in a way that was supposed to be teasing, but was instead entirely too fifth-grade. She felt like she was confronting her crush by the swingset.

Villanelle laughed, shaking her head.

“ _Duh_ , you idiot. A pretty idiot.”

“Takes one to know one,” Eve rolled her eyes, parroting their discussion from earlier. 

Villanelle smirked, “so I am a pretty idiot too?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You are being suspiciously defensive, Eve.”

Eve had nothing to say to that but silence. Villanelle smirked, because she had won.

After several minutes of quiet driving down the interstate, Villanelle laughed.

“I just realized I have no idea where I’m going,” she said, “where do you live?”

“What? I’m not giving you my address.”

“Eve,” Villanelle deadpanned, “you let me drive you around for hours without a destination but you won’t give me your address?”

“Yup. Stranger danger.”

“Your school curriculum definitely failed you.”

Eve laughed. 

“Plus,” Villanelle added, “we are not strangers anymore.”

Eve stopped laughing.

“Yeah? So what are we?” Eve managed, watching Villanelle’s features like a hawk. She had clearly set Eve up to ask the question, and Eve would meet her head on. It was teasing enough, platonic enough. It fit perfectly to the rhythm of their little dance, their strange ballet.

Then, unexpectedly: “Don’t you already know what we are?” Villanelle said softly, a hint of a frown on her lips. Eve’s eyebrows rose, a chill going down her spine.

“...What?”

“I thought it was clear…”

“Villanelle…”

“Back at the house…”

“I didn’t―” Eve was full on panicking.

“We’re business partners, Eve. _Duh_. Had you already forgotten?” Villanelle chirped happily, a shit-eating grin plastered to her face. 

Everything stilled, and Eve took a dramatic breath in.

“I’m going to throw you out of this car.”

Villanelle giggled, a maniacal, endearing sound.

“I don’t think your insurance will cover that.”

***

Eve gave Villanelle her address. Let it be remembered that she did so reluctantly.

“This is it,” Eve said, waving towards her driveway. 

As if they were coming home from Prom, Villanelle insisted on walking her to the door. 

“So that was fun,” Villanelle grinned, leaning into Eve’s doorway, “aren’t you happy you took the day off?”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly how I remember it,” Eve rolled her eyes, grinning despite herself.

“No? Hugo, such a helpful employee… _Insisting_ you take a break...” 

“Not what happened. Also―you _do_ know his name,” Eve pointed accusingly.

“Of course,” Villanelle laughed, pushing away Eve’s finger, “but it is more fun when I don’t.”

The feeling of Villanelle’s hand on hers, however fleeting, caused Eve to still. She had forgotten how long she had held that hand under hers. How small and strong it felt in her grasp. She wanted to hold it again. She looked at Villanelle’s face, and licked her lips. She wanted to do, oh God―

“Do you stare at all your friends like this?” Villanelle laughed, but it was nervous. Eve realized the same feeling that Villanelle elicited in her, she elicited in Villanelle. It was like a high, the power and the vulnerability―mixed and shaken like a Molotov cocktail.

“I’m not staring,” Eve lied.

“You are like, blatantly staring.”

“You have something on your face,” Eve shrugged, continuing to look. She felt like she was in a dream. That sensation of fearlessness where everything is possible, where bad ideas aren’t so bad, because nothing is real, because there are no consequences.

“Yeah?” Villanelle murmured, voice constrained. Her pupils had gone from stars to blown, black moons. Her cheeks were slightly red, inflamed. 

“Yeah.”

Eve reached out, cupping the side of Villanelle’s cheek and brushing air off of it. Villanelle’s eyes shut closed at the sensation, her lips parting just so. Eve relished the softness of it, how completely Villanelle submitted to her touch. 

And then she let go.

“Got it,” Eve said, watching Villanelle’s eyes open in surprise. Eve smirked. 

“What was it?”

“A bat.”

Villanelle groaned.

“Idiot.”

“Pretty idiot,” Eve corrected, biting her lip.

“Whatever,” Villanelle said, hitting Eve’s arm.

Another beat passed, the broad oak trees in Eve’s yard swaying with the wind. They were covered in deep shade, lit by only the last hint of the dawning sun. Villanelle’s eyes pulled at her own like a lasso, tugging and tugging and _tugging_. Eve wondered if they’d ever stop looking at each other like this, a magnetic pull stuck in overdrive. She wanted so badly for Villanelle to lean in, to cup the side of her face, to close the distance―

Eve swallowed. But that would… be stupid. This wasn’t just dumb lust growing between them, it was something else, a friendship, a _job_ , something else, maybe...

Something terrifyingly genuine. 

Eve’s urge to run nearly swallowed her urge to stay.

“Thanks for today,” Eve said slowly, “even if you owe me a day of vacation pay.”

“I’m pretty sure I covered that last week,” Villanelle teased.

“Nope. I expect a direct deposit.”

“Keep dreaming,” Villanelle grinned, and then that grin became a smile, soft and exposed, “but you’re welcome, Eve. And I’m… sorry. About your Dad. I would not have picked that spot if I had known.”

Eve’s eyes felt heavy, the dull pain of memory reminding her of its omnipresence. Still, Vilanelle’s expression was its own comfort, a cradle of lips. 

“I’m glad we went,” Eve shrugged, “I’m glad you…”

Eve’s eyes went to Villanelle’s hand. 

“You just… you made it easier.”

The admission left Eve like a bullet leaving a revolver. Fast, with no build-up. A quick split and it was in the air. The reality crushed Eve: Villanelle _had_ made it easier. _No one_ had ever made it easier. Her mere presence, the comfort of their fingers intertwined. Her dumb jokes. Her smile. Her perfume, for fucks sake. 

Before Villanelle could respond, Eve’s keys had already turned in her lock.

“Goodnight!” Eve croaked, stepping into the house with a wobble.

“Oh. Goodnight,” Villanelle swallowed, star-struck.

Eve slammed the door behind her, but all she could do was stare at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kind of clawed its way out of me, a whole doozy. i hope you enjoyed!


	6. Three Shots

She had met Konstantin on Craigslist. This was not a fact Villanelle was proud of―really, she destested it, and as far as anybody else was concerned, they had met at a highly-attended art auction. She had bought a Warhol and him a Picasso. She had reminded Konstantin of this falsity enough that she thinks the memory might genuinely be replaced, properly misremembered. 

But the truth was as interesting as it was embarrassing. She had made a post she wasn’t supposed to make, crafted at 2 AM and written entirely in Russian. The circumstances of its creation were not optimal: her hand curled around a dirty Martini, her mind trying and failing to produce English on her blustery keyboard. She had never meant to list the item at such a high price, a pair of suede boots straight out of Taiwan. But after a long, arduous session of beating her manicured, drunk nails against the keyboard, she clicked send on what could best be described as a Russian tirade against high-heels.

She had received an offer almost immediately. For shoes worth an measly two-hundred, the buyer had met her drunken asking price of three-thousand, and doubled it. No taxes. No funny business. Six thousand dollars straight through the wire. His reply was written in a mix of gangly Russian and childish English, short, blunt sentences ended with emojis. He said he liked her wordplay, that she should consider a career in copywriting. She accused him of being a lousy troll for a solid fourteen text exchanges until the payment had reached her Paypal. 

From there forward, the tone of their relationship had been remarkably consistent: Villanelle got things for Konstantin, and Konstantin paid her handsomely, the in between time peppered with half-smiled arguments. 

“Are you being good, Villanelle?” came his gruff voice through her iPhone. Villanelle grinned into the receiver, and then at her reflection. She was currently checking herself out in a Target dressing room, running her hands over silky black cashmere.

“Is that even a question? I am always good.”

“Hah. You are confusing yourself with someone else.”

“I am very layered, Konstantin.” She twirled, noting the slight sag in the hips, the tight grip of the waist. This was the one. Flashy enough to be complimented, well-made enough to be worn again. It wasn’t a perfect fit on her, but on Eve, it would look unholy, a turtleneck transformed into an evening gown. If this couldn’t inspire Eve to leave her permanent stay at the dungaree department, nothing would. 

“Well, I hope one of your many layers is actually working for me. I checked the house again today and it was very, very empty. Can you explain that to me?”

“Worry-wart. I am perfectly on schedule.”

“Is that true? Then where is all the furniture?”

“In various locations, waiting to be picked up.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved, “so you’ve actually bought it then?”

“Did I say that?” Villanelle laughed, dark and childish, “by locations, I meant stores. Think of the furniture as pre-bought.”

Konstantin groaned loudly.

“You are impossible,” he grunted, “I want at least half of the house done by this weekend. You understand me, Villanelle?”

“Of course,” she said happily, “your English is flawless.”

“Absolutely impossible,” he grunted, and the line went flat.

Villanelle disrobed, dropped the dress in her bag, and walked to checkout.

  
  


Eve had always liked to watch women bartend. Something about their exacting movements, the way that the recipes sank into muscle memory. The gentle strength in their forearms, the coordination in the pour and the serve. Eve liked it in the same way she liked ballet, or breakdance, or calculated murder.

On television, of course. Only on television. 

The bartender at Crow’s Nest tonight was as talented as any other. She poured up their Mojitos like a pro, eyes barely straying from their faces as her fingers worked like an orchestra. Eve gave her a sizable tip, and Bill looked at her with a knowing smirk.

“Blondes doing it for you lately?” he said, face as innocent as a baby. 

Eve was not amused. She took a long sip of her mojito, Bill’s eyebrows rising expectantly with each gulp. 

“And why would you say that?” she said, finally, tearing the glass away from her lip. The drink was half-downed. 

“Oh, nothing,” he shrugged, “I just seemed to notice a certain out-of-towner making quite a few appearances at the store lately. Not to mention in the morning lines at John’s. Maybe a pink ferrari owner?”

Eve rolled her eyes, “isn’t it completely ridiculous? Like, _that’s_ what you’re driving around?”

“It’s gorgeous. And you love it.”

“I don’t.”

“You so do.”

“Maybe a little,” Eve bit her lip, suppressing a growing smile, “I mean, who in their right mind purchases a _hot pink_ ferrari? Especially around here, Christ. It’s like walking into a library and screaming.”

“She seems the type to do that too.”

“God, right?” Eve said, throwing her hands up, “she’d probably start singing at someone’s funeral if she wasn’t getting enough attention.”

“Infuriating,” he said, teasingly. 

“Yes,” Eve said, narrowing her eyes, “don’t joke with me. It is infuriating. She is infuriating.”

“Is that why I saw her car parked outside your house on Tuesday?”

Eve swallowed, hard. 

“Shut up. Are you stalking me? She was just driving me home.” 

Eve took another long sip of her mojito. Bill laughed, clocking her nerves.

“Home from where? The store? You do know you own a car, Eve.”

“We had to talk, that’s all,” Eve emphasized, “business stuff.”

“Oh? Business? So you’re admitting that she played that auction like a violin.”

“ _No_ , Jesus. Why does everyone think I paid her to do that? That was all her. Not my fault she’s insane and has no concept of money.”

Bill grinned, “so other business, then?”

Eve eyed him, unappreciative of his unflappably suggestive tone. She waved down the bartender and ordered another mojito, two shots instead of one. She liked the way the rum went down, the careful, controlled burn against her esophagus. Eve enjoyed pain, reveled in it. She delighted in it wherever it came from, a pin prick, a paper cut, oil jumping off a pan. 

Alcohol was simply the easiest route, and the most socially acceptable. It was pain and pleasure all at once.

Eve took another sip and chastised herself. It was a miracle she wasn’t an alcoholic.

“Interesting,” Bill continued, “you are very bad at ignoring questions, Eve.”

“I was getting to it,” another sip, “we’re business partners, or whatever. She has a client whose house needs decorating. And oh my god, _what_ a specimen, Bill. It’s probably where Jesus would retire, if he wasn’t, you know.”

“Right,” Bill laughed, ever-amused, “so you’re decorating buddies?”

“Call it whatever you want. It’s money.”

“It’s _just_ money?”

Eve put her glass down, inched it away from herself on the bar. She was nearing the bottom much too quickly. This line of questioning was making her feel both ill and uneasy, an unsettling combination to mix with three shots of rum.

“I mean...” she drawled, looking pointedly away, “honestly, it’s just nice to have a friend.”

Bill scoffed, “a friend? Come on, Eve. You telling me we’re acquaintances then?”

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.”

“So a lady friend, then.”

“I guess. Whatever,” Eve relented.

“A _lady_ friend,” he grinned.

“What are you trying to get me to admit? That I want to go down on her in a Walmart? Grab her tits in the Chili house parking lot? Because I will not,” Eve responded harshly, like a fuse had blown somewhere in her skull.

Bill whistled, “All I said was lady friend, Eve. You’re the one talking about tit grabbing.”

Eve groaned, and stared long and hard at her mojito. With a quiet _fuck it_ , she downed the rest.

Before Bill could open his gaudy mouth again, Eve’s phone buzzed. His lips closed and formed a relentlessly shit-eating smile. 

“Speak of the devil,” he said quietly, trying to diffuse the bomb waiting patiently behind Eve’s eyes.

“Shush. It’s probably just Hugo wanting the day off tomorrow.”

She opened her purse and produced the phone. Two new messages. Villanelle. Fuck.

“ _That’s_ her name? Oh my god, you’re so done. It’s already over,” Bill laughed. Eve swatted at his hand, but her eyes were planted on the screen, her heart bubbling over like a broken keg of ale. 

_howdy stranger_

_wanna discuss the heist at mine later? X_

Bill read it aloud over Eve’s shoulder, causing her to cringe. Out of his mouth, the flirting was undoubtable. There was no subtext. 

“Heist?” he questioned, “she’s making a criminal out of you, huh? Can’t say I didn’t expect it.”

“She’s just being an asshole,” Eve shook her head, “one second.”

“Of course,” he pleaded, “take all the time you want. Grab her tits if need be.”

Eve ignored him.

_not funny_

It took a total of five seconds for Villanelle to respond. Eve’s pulse radiated against her skin, the alcohol moving languidly through her veins.

_I am hurt, Eve. I am very funny._

_Plus, interior design is way too blase. It’s more fun to pretend we’re committing dangerous crimes._

_More fun how?_

_You cannot convince me for even a second you don’t find crime a little sexy._

  
  


Eve coughed loudly, hyper-aware that Bill was making direct eye contact with her phone screen.

“Eve, this is _so_ transparent.”

“You’re transparent.”

“Yeah, and this woman is madly into you.”

Eve’s cheeks reddened to a dark maroon, through emotion or Asian flush, she couldn’t tell you, “No she’s not, Bill. This is just how she talks, trust me.”

“Whatever you say,” he laughed, “I’m getting another drink.”

Eve humphed, and turned back to her screen.

_I don’t exactly strip for CSI: Miami_

_Duh. Because that’s not real crime._

_Oh, it’s not? What, do you get turned on by shoplifting?_

_You definitely haven’t shoplifted the right things if you’re asking that question. :)_

Eve crossed her legs. She then proceeded to ignore the fact that she crossed her legs.

She was getting turned on by sentences that, frankly, made absolutely no sense.

This conversation needed to end immediately. 

_Ok, remind me to never text you again. Goodbye._

_those nice leather watches… gold karat face masks…_

_Oh, and just about anything from LUSH. Ugh._

_Good. bye._

_So are you coming over or no?_

Eve groaned. Did she want to come over? Maybe. Yes. She had enjoyed their time at Sandia immensely, despite the circumstances, despite everything. She could argue with Villanelle all night long, listen to her stupid jokes and even worse opinions. More than that, she had an undying need to know her―to pull back the facade, the speckless makeup, the fancy, audacious car. She wanted to know her motivations, the thoughts that wracked her brain, that kept her up at night.

Eve fidgeted, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, sensing a burdensome warmth building at their center. 

Maybe she wanted to know about _that_ , too.

Maybe. Probably not. Definitely not.

Baby steps.

Eve looked back down at her phone: three new messages.

_You don’t have to, if you’re busy._

_I just think it would be smart if we discussed plans._

_Konstantin is very annoying. He wants me to have all of it done so soon. So impatient._

Eve grinned dumbly at the screen. Villanelle was _nervous_. Eve had made her nervous. God, were they teenagers? 

_Fine, I’ll come._

_But I’m a little drunk. Getting some drinks with friends. Just a warning._

Eve bit her lip and waited. Villanelle took her time with her response, three dots dipping down, sloping up.

_Ew, at a bar? I’ll make you something way better._

_See you at nine._

“See you at nine,” Bill parroted mockingly, voice as sultry as a parakeet, “God, Eve. You’re in trouble.”

“I know,” she said, burying her head in her hands.

  
  
  
  


Villanelle’s apartment complex was spectacularly unassuming. Hidden like a body in Albuquerque's proverbial morgue, stuffed away in innocuous suburbia. It was two floors tall, with Villanelle occupying room 4A on the second. The outside was red brick, clouded with dense foliage. The lobby was small, unlavish. The wallpaper was ripping. Eve couldn’t believe her eyes. It was thoroughly… un-decadent.

Eve climbed the creaking staircase to the second floor, turning two corners and an elevator to reach Villanelle’s room. There was a wreath on her doorway. Eve’s confusion only heightened―it was February. Villanelle did not strike her as the type to leave Christmas decorations up past their expiration date.

Eve rapped twice on the door. She tensed at the sound of footsteps coming from inside. At this point, she was very convinced Villanelle had sent her to some stranger’s apartment, and she was about to die.

“Eve!” Villanelle said brightly, opening the door with a violent speed. Eve gaped at her. So, not a murderer. But a killer of a different kind―Eve’s eyes strayed, as they annoyingly tended to, to Villanelle’s figure. She was dressed down, sporting form-fitting jeans and a frustratingly revealing crop top. The relaxedness of it stunned Eve into silence, so used to the shock and awe of Villanelle’s usual flair.

“This is where you live?” was the first thing out of Eve’s mouth. 

Someone else would have rightly been offended. Villanelle laughed.

“Quite the dump, right? The wallpaper downstairs is _so_ terrible. Sometimes I don’t open my eyes until I get to my room,” Villanelle giggled, summoning Eve through the door so she could shut it, “I have practiced. I can get up stairs blind without falling now.”

“Villanelle, that is _so_ stupid.” Villanelle took Eve’s jacket. Eve paused, but let her.

“It is not stupid. Subjecting my eyes to that kind of travesty is stupid. It will ruin me.”

“So dramatic,” Eve shook her head, “then why do you live here? Don’t you have like a gazillion dollars?”

Villanelle bit her lip. She looked almost shy, eyes avoidant. 

“I did not plan to be here as long as I have.”

Eve’s stomach did a somersault. Oh. And how long had she intended to stay? A day? A week? Had she not met Eve, would the job be done by now? Would Villanelle already be onto the next, browsing through color wheels and expensive couches in Southern California?

“Right,” Eve diverted, then took a proper look around. While the exterior of the apartment had been seriously lacking, Villanelle had made her space wholly her own. For only being here two weeks, the space was drowning in things: clothes, a menagerie of potted plants, a gorgeous hardwood desk, quite a number of candles.

“You don’t waste time,” Eve laughed lightly, running her hand over the rim of one of the candles. She picked it up and inspected it, “does this say Bath and Body Works?”

Villanelle grabbed it out of her hands, frowning, “of course not.”

“It definitely does.”

“I would never.”

“I think you did, though,” Eve grinned, “god, the illustrious, brand-only Villanelle bought something from a _normal_ store. I might faint.”

“Their lavender candles smell very nice,” Villanelle pouted. 

Eve stared at her. So, that was cute. 

“Uh huh,” Eve teased, swallowing. Villanelle waved her off, and turned towards her kitchen island. Two martinis were sitting on the surface, adorned by olives and lit brightly by a nearby lamp. 

Eve definitely did not need more alcohol. But there were a lot of things she didn’t need, and yet.

“Thanks,” Eve said as Villanelle handed it over.

“Cheers, partner,” Villanelle grinned, touching the tips of the glasses. 

“What are we cheering to?”

“Us, duh.”

 _Us_. Eve blinked, let Villanelle’s gentle smile sink into her skin, branding her.

They drank, eyes melting into each other, fire to ice.

Villanelle led her to the bed, it being their only choice of seating in the small apartment. Eve sat at one side and Villanelle the other, an array of paper and architectural plans sitting between them. So she wasn’t kidding about the work talk. Eve felt a pang of disappointment. She shoved it down with another sip.

“This is really good,” Eve complimented reluctantly, settling onto the comforter.

“Told you,” Villanelle licked her lips, obviously fueled by the compliment, “I used to be a mixologist.”

Eve let out an uncontrollable laugh, “you mean a bartender?”

“They are different things, Eve.”

“Did you serve drinks at a bar?”

“Well, yes, but―”

“You were a bartender.”

“I prefer mixologist,” Villanelle narrowed her eyes.

“Of course you do,” Eve shook her head, agonizingly enamored by the other woman, “when?”

“A few years ago,” Villanelle shrugged, “before I met Konstantin.”

“Aha,” Eve pointed, “so you _haven’t_ always been ridiculously wealthy. Called it.”

“Well done, Eve,” Villanelle smirked, “you are an accomplished detective.”

“Where did you live before you met him?”

Villanelle’s eyebrows rose. She was growing to understand that Eve was not one for small talk. When she wanted to know something, she asked. It was as if the questions jumped out of her, feral animals escaping containment.

“Not here.”

Eve frowned, “don’t bullshit me.”

“Me? Never.”

“You? Always,” Eve laughed, arms folded.

Villanelle stared at her, a considering expression on her face.

“I came to the US at 20. I had very little money. This tends to happen when you run away from home.”

Eve’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. Villanelle registered the expression. It wasn’t quite pity, but it wasn’t just intrigue, either. 

“You ran away?” Eve bit her lip. Eve’s heart hammered in her chest. Villanelle didn’t look sad, but she did look vulnerable. It was clear that she was unused to sharing, to dismantling her carefully constructed image to satisfy the curiosity of others. To satisfy _Eve_.

“Don’t worry, no one was hitting me,” Villanelle rolled her eyes, “but my Mother was an arsehole. Dad died when I was young. My two brothers are fine, but annoyingly simple. I was bored.”

Eve licked her lips. Of course she left because she was bored. The explanation felt appropriate, but lacking. 

“So you just left? How?”

“Getting kicked out of the house is a pretty good motivator,” Villanelle grinned, enjoying the way Eve’s eyes flicked between emotions. 

“Wait, what? Why?” Eve leaned towards her.

“So nosy, Eve,” Villanelle said, taking a long sip of her drink, and finished it. She placed it on the ground next to them, making a point to lean over Eve’s thigh. Eve’s breath hitched, Villanelle’s chest brushing up against her. 

  
Asshole.

“I slept with a married woman.”

Eve’s jaw unlocked.

“Bullshit.”

“Nope. Totally serious,” Villanelle laughed, eyes creasing in a way that made Eve want to cup her face.

“You’re terrible,” Eve said, mouth agape, but smiling despite herself. 

“To be fair, I was only nineteen. She really shouldn’t have slept with _me_.”

“No, probably not,” Eve bit her lip. Villanelle’s face looked unusually somber, an odd look that nearly resembled regret. Eve wanted to wipe it away. It didn’t belong there. She managed to suppress the impulse.

“So you got thrown out for that? Seems like a weird reaction.”

“Well, Russia is a weird place,” Villanelle defended, “I also stole a lot of things. Like, a _lot_ of things. I think if the town could have banned me officially, they would have.”

Eve laughed like an explosive. 

“Oh my god,” she said, desperately trying to breathe, “you’re telling me you were the town thief _and_ a homewrecker?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, too-proudly, “and then a mixologist. And now a collector. A woman of many talents.”

Eve threw her head into her hands. This was quite possibly the worst thing to find out drunk. Eve wanted to laugh until her insides burst. 

When she finally looked back up at Villanelle, she had expected a fearless smile. Something indignant and all too self-pleased. But instead she was greeted with a look of mild concern, eyebrows dipped, tongue licking nervously over lips.

“Do you think differently of me, Eve?” she said, voice soft. 

“Honestly?” Eve said, rum and adrenaline causing her voice to waver, “I think I like you even more now. Isn’t that terrible?”

Villanelle grinned like the sun. Like the goddamn stars.

“It is. You shouldn’t like thieves and housewreckers, Eve.”

“I don’t, in general. Just maybe don’t do it again.”

“No promises.”

They stared at each other. Well, from Eve’s perspective, Villanelle was staring at her. She didn’t start it. Certainly staring back wasn’t a crime. And so what if she had moved a paper or two out of the way so she could nudge herself closer. So what if their hands were basically touching. So what so what so what.

“You think very loudly, Eve.”

Eve frowned. Villanelle’s eyes had gone to their hands, noting their proximity. 

“No I don’t, asshole,” Eve mumbled, a bit incoherent. What was even happening?

What was ever happening between them?

“I’m not an asshole,” Villanelle whispered, and she was closer than Eve remembered her being, her lips only a breath away. Villanelle’s hand had slinked over Eve’s, fingers dragging unhurriedly up her forearm. Eve shuttered. She couldn’t help it. 

“Oh,” Villanelle said cockily, her fingers halting their progress, “are you cold, Eve?”

Eve leveled her with a life-ending glare. But there was nothing behind it but want, but latent hunger. She closed her eyes tightly, then reopened them, her mind a blank canvas. 

“I want to know everything about you,” is what Eve wanted to say. She didn’t. 

“Why am I here?” was another avenue she considered. She opted out.

“Who the fuck even are you and what do you want with me?” was what her mind ultimately settled on, but before she could get it out―

“Would you like to watch a movie?” Villanelle asked, suddenly back in her own personal bubble. It was as if the moment had been torn from time, hatched shut and replaced with something else. The air went from hot to room temperature, her rabid heartbeat settling like dust after a storm.

“Weren’t you going to tell me about the plans?” Eve countered weakly. 

“Please, they can wait. Shrek is much more critical.”

Eve let out a shuddering breath, an easy laugh.

“God, to think you could ever claim to have taste.”

“Shrek _is_ taste!” Villanelle gaped, horrified, “I’ll grab my laptop.”

Eve watched as she jumped from the bed, gathering the papers and floor plans and dropping them on her desk. Eve watched as she searched for her laptop among a mess of open books and scattered papers. Eve watched, and watched, and ached with realization. She had no idea who this woman was―thief, homewrecker, bartender, collector, ferrari owner―but she might be able to spend an eternity drowning in the ridiculous details.

She heard Bill’s voice in the back of her head, and she frowned. 

“Fine, one movie,” Eve said. It felt like admitting defeat.

Unfortunately, the expression on Villanelle’s face―soft, surprised, just the slightest bit confused―made it way too worth it.

  
  
  



	7. Jack In The Box

So, Villanelle was a bit of a movie freak. A whole Pixar obsessive.

This worked out perfectly for Eve, who couldn’t care less.

Movies had never really been a big thing to her, tv neither. What’s so great about pretending? She watched people pretend everyday. People pretend in how they dress, how they talk, how many people they claim to have slept with. Eve would much rather deal in facts over fiction. She wanted to know what _really_ made people tick―what made them do terrible things, act out, reveal the true horrorshow. Real knowledge, genuine clarity: this is what Eve craved, and she craved it incessantly.

This might have partially explained her pull to Villanelle. Villanelle was a classically trained pretender. She flitted through facades like a stuttering street lamp, personalities coming and going like brief shots of light in the dark. It was her absolute control over this act that maddened Eve, gnawed at her like a slowly growing forest fire. Villanelle played herself and those around her like a puppet master: precise, rehearsed movements, a carefully memorized script. Eve wanted nothing more than to rip back the curtain.

So while Villanelle watched the screen, Eve watched her. The only motion picture Eve was concerned with was the one playing on Villanelle’s face: the unending drama of her expressions, the way her lips moved through the songs even when she seemed too embarrassed to sing them. It was cute, obviously, but beyond that it was confounding. Eve was struck by the intensity of Villanelle’s focus. It was one of the few times where she could tell the other woman’s full attention was elsewhere, wrapt entirely in the story of…

Shrek.

Eve tried and failed to suppress a laugh at the lunacy of it. Because of all the things this maze of a woman could be mesmerized by, it _would_ be―

“What are you laughing at?” Villanelle mumbled, eyes unmoving from this screen, “this is a sad part, Eve. Shrek has lost his Fiona.”

“I’m well-aware. I’ve seen it, like, eighty times.”

“Really?” Villanelle said in quiet amazement, “I have only seen it three.”

“Seriously? I thought it was your favorite movie?”

“It is. But I only discovered it last year.”

“You discovered Shrek last year?” Eve laughed, incredulous, “where were you in the 2000’s?”

“In Russia,” Villanelle frowned.

Eve bit her lip, hard. Right. She tried to formulate a vision of Villanelle’s childhood, but she found she couldn’t. She, like most Americans, had a warped, painfully bland view of the country. Her mind’s eye could only summon stereotypes, cliches. Villanelle was anything but either.

“Did they not have films like this there?” Eve asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Villanelle shrugged, “if they did, I was not allowed to see them.”

Eve saw Villanelle’s lip wobble so slightly that it was almost imperceivable. The sight of it fell on Eve’s chest like a dumbbell.

She wondered for the rest of the night what Villanelle _was_ allowed.

  
  
  
  


Going to work the next day felt weird. It wasn’t that it was unusual―it was perhaps the usualness itself that felt out of place. Nothing about Eve’s past two weeks had been usual. To continue about her boring, normal life felt nearly like a lie, even though there was nothing deceitful about it.

She still owned a store. She still had an employee. 

She still lived alone, heaved herself out of bed at 7, got a burrito from John’s.

But suddenly all of this routine felt less like a comfort and more like waterboarding. There were no small pleasures anymore―only the patient waiting for genuine thrills. Unexpected car rides. An afternoon of re-lived trauma. The company of a woman who was more like a labyrinth.

She turned the street corner into the parking lot. Her car ambled slowly into its usual spot and she pulled the key from ignition. There to meet her, like always, were familiar green walls. A cedarwood terrace. A sign that was looking less and less like hers.

Her store, once a hand-me-down sanctuary, was becoming a prison sentence.

She had left Villanelle’s apartment half past ten. It took all of her willpower to tear herself from that bed. One, because it was _beyond_ comfortable, and anything was better than her lousy mattress. And two...

Eve felt her control slipping. Correction: it had slipped. It was gone. She had made the mistake of looking away, and there it went, untethered from earth and floating towards the sun like a slowly withering balloon. 

She hadn’t asked for this―to change. Nothing could be less convenient. 

It was an unwanted metamorphosis. But things like this are never asked for, are they?

“Rough night?” Hugo chided as Eve schlepped inside. Eve frowned at him.

“No,” she mutters, “it was nice, actually.” 

“Oh?” he said, eyebrows raised, “only you would find a way to look guilty about having a good time.”

Eve’s frown deepened. Being right didn’t look good on Hugo. Best that it ended quickly.

“I’m fine,” she yawned, “I’m just a bit tired.”

“You’ve been saying that lot lately.”

Hugo was eyeing her with something that looked a lot like pity. Eve resented the sentiment. Who was he to be concerned? She was fine. Well, she wasn’t fine, but there was nothing she could do about that. She would wallow with it. She was excellent at wallowing.

“Did you meet me yesterday? I’m chronically tired.”

Wisely, he decided to stop pushing. Good for him, Eve thought, he valued his life. She’s not sure how much longer she could have withstood that line of questioning. She was wound up like a jack-in-the-box. 

Eve wanted to laugh. The funny thing about those toys was that, originally, they popped out cloth devils. Devil-in-a-box, they were called. Children’s toys used to be a lot more interesting, evidently. Crank, crank, boo! It’s Satan. She decided to mark the emerging insatiability inside of her as a homage to that. Eve Polastri, Devil-In-A-Box. Crank her and expect hell.

  
  
  
  


Villanelle, unbeknownst to Eve’s slow soul death, was having her best morning in ages.

She woke up like a Disney princess, arms extending languidly towards the ceiling. She smiled at its familiar patterns. She turned her head, smiled at her lamp. Smiled at the floorboards. Smiled at everything. Golly. She hadn’t been in such a good mood since the time she slipped a few nondescript pills off her party-hardy Silicon Valley client. And even then, the high had been fleeting. 

This was not a high but, instead, a _finding_ . It was as if Villanelle had yanked a scratched-up vinyl from the cupboard and found, against all odds, that it played flawlessly. And what a melody it was. She was sure Beethoven would be very jealous. She had not known herself to be capable of these _feelings_ , but yet: here they were. She did not have the care to be scared of them. No, they were not big enough yet, not yet powerful enough to be laced with poison. Right now, they just _were_. And it was a pleasant thing, the warmth. 

Warm was a funny word for it, because Eve was anything but. She wasn’t cold, per se; she was factual. Concrete. A blunt knife with serrated edges. It was the prettiest pain Villanelle had ever endured, this newfound enamoration. She liked the way Eve said things, the way she looked at things like she was studying them. She tended to look at Villanelle the same, like a textbook come to life. 

Villanelle frowned. That metaphor was _not_ sexy. 

And this whole thing was very, very sexy. As sexy as it was clinical. It was both. Eve looked at her like she wanted to tear into her. She’d take that either way: like a textbook, or like a woman. Let’s be real: she’d let herself be ravaged in just about any capacity.

Frown be gone, now she was properly grinning. Eve was a lucky woman, to have Villanelle think of her like this. And oh, she wasn’t even aware of it! Such a funny thing. What blissful ignorance, except it was not blissful at all. 

Villanelle’s thoughts strayed―they were not _all_ about ravaging. Mainly, and strangely, the thoughts revolved around the smaller touches. She had a newfound desire to feel Eve’s hand in hers, or maybe just a hand to her cheek, or one running lazily up her forearm. Wow, her forearm! Villanelle wanted to scoff at herself, but found herself unable. It was a serious thought. It was a serious desire.

Villanelle unlocked her phone and stared intently at the screen. She swiped through her contacts.

It had been nine hours. That seemed long enough.

  
  
  
  


Eve tensed as the name flashed across her screen. She’d say the phone had read her mind, but that would be unreasonable. It was not reality’s fault if Villanelle was on her mind 23 hours out of 24. At that point, it was just probability.

“You picked up!” Villanelle said brightly.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Eve mumbled, looking to see Hugo’s reaction. Gratefully, he was too busy on whatever computer assembly mess he had started, parts flying in whatever direction.

“Are you busy?”

“Is it ever going to dawn on you that I have a fulltime job?”

“No.”

Eve groaned. 

“Why do I even bother?”

“Because you like me.”

Shit. Eve’s teeth clamped down on her bottom lip. Not _not_ the truth, but much too early in the morning for it―

Villanelle continued, “and because I am making you very, very rich, remember? Well, rich by your standards. Which I am sure still require you to shop at Target, because you are a masochist.”

Eve laughed.

“I’m not a _masochist_ ,” a definite lie, but unrelatedly, “tease me about Walmart all you want, but don’t come for Target. Target is fucking great.”

“Mm. Fine, Target is _okay_. But not ‘fucking great’,” Villanelle imitated her accent perfectly, “that is way too emphatic. Please reserve that kind of reaction for something better, like the dress I bought you.”

Eve froze. The what? 

“What dress?” she asked slowly.

The phone went silent for a moment. 

“Oh. Yes. What dress?” Villanelle said quickly, “no dress at all! I said nothing. Forget about it. Let’s talk about something less boring, like how I’m on my way over. Knock knock, Eve, I’m almost there.”

“What? What dress? Stop deflecting!” Eve squeaked, “and, wait―you’re doing what? I’m working.”

Villanelle giggled. Eve’s heart wrenched. She wanted to reach through the glass screen and choke her.

Nicely, of course. With just enough pressure to elicit a gasp, maybe. Nothing too harsh. Nothing that would hurt.

Eve’s mind frayed. How in the fuck had she arrived on that train of thought? 

Villanelle clicked her tongue, “okay, I am hanging up. I will be there soon, so you don’t have to miss my voice too much. Bye!”

Eve yelled into the receiver, but the line had already gone cold.

If Hugo was looking at her with a knowing smirk, she wouldn’t know. She was too busy waiting for the inevitable. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Before Eve could protest, Villanelle flung up a hand.

“I am here for work,” she declared, as if _work_ was not the guise for every interaction they’d had since the day they met.

Still, Eve deflated. Work, atleast, was an excuse to refocus. Work was a bandaid.

“Oh yeah?” Eve questioned, lifting an eyebrow. Obliging Villanelle for now, yes, but never easily.

“Yup,” Villanelle said, smiling brightly. She sauntered into the store and perched herself on the edge of Hugo’s desk. He groaned, flailing for a stick of RAM that she knocked off the side.

“Can you guys take this somewhere else? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this work environment is getting a bit too _much_ ,” Hugo stressed dramatically, staring straight through Eve. Eve scoffed. 

“Stop complaining, I literally pay you to sit on your ass.”

“I am not sitting. I am _fixing_.”

“Good for you. Now what do you want, Villanelle?” Eve said placidly. 

Villanelle seemed to frown a bit at her tone. Typical. She lived to make Eve uncomfortable. To take her off her game. But, to be honest, being interrupted by Villanelle had become her new normal. It had made Eve more uncomfortable to exist _without_ the constant threat of her presence.

But Villanelle definitely did not need to know that. So Eve stood, hands on hips, and waited.

“I already told you,” Villanelle shrugged, “work. We are decorating a house, yes? I came to make some purchases. I thought you could help me.”

“Oh,” Eve stuttered, “wait, like purchases from here?”

Villanelle looked around, eyeing the interior dramatically, “wait, is this not a store? Is it actually the storage unit I thought it to be?”

Eve’s initial shock left her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Yes, from here,” Villanelle laughed, coming up to Eve and patting her arm patronizingly, “I am feeling charitable.”

Eve ignored the numb, tingling feeling that Villanelle’s hand left on her arm. She swallowed.

“Shut up.”

“Hardly a way to speak to a customer.”

“You’re not my customer.”

“No? Oh good, that means I get the friend discount?” Villanelle grinned.

Eve smiled cruelly, “no, you get the rich people tax. Now, let me show you the back.”

  
  
  
  


“Wow, Eve,” Villanelle said, eyes comically large, “it is so…”

Eve eyed her suspiciously, watching as Villanelle dragged her fingers over the cupboards, drifted around hardwood tables and stacks of tapes and CDs.

“Dusty. It is _so_ dusty.”

Eve glared. 

“I will kick you out.”

“No you won’t,” Villanelle gloated.

Eve would, she could, but she won’t. 

Terrifying, that sentence had made absolute sense to her when it crossed her mind. What an apt summary of her mental state. Villanelle was her customer, but she also wasn’t. She was her friend, but also, not at all. They were coworkers, but that was about the shallowest label you could give to their relationship.

It was all an anomaly, a paradox. It was as exhausting as it was exhilarating.

“Oh, good. You are staring again. I have finally stopped boring you.”

Eve’s eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m not staring,” she defended, quick as a whip. The insistence was tiring even _her_ at this point, “and you aren’t… boring. You’re never boring. You’re just a dick.”

Villanelle smiled wildly at that.

“Good. Now, would you like to show the dick your wares?”

“Ew,” Eve grimaced “Please never say that again.”

“No promises,” Villanelle said, crassly, and Eve’s mind was transported back to last night.

 _No promises_ . There never were any between them, were there? Just back-and-forths, and looks, and fleeting bouts of overwhelming, soul-crushing _feelings_.

“Fine,” Eve said, desperate for a conversational trajectory that wouldn’t send her into an early death, “we can start with the living room pieces. I have a good selection of tables and chairs. And _stools_ , but you’re not allowed to see those, because you insulted them last time.”

Villanelle laughed, “so bitter.”

“Always,” Eve admitted.

Eve led her around the storage space. The back of the store, locked away from the customer-facing section, was sprawling. It was sectioned into divisions based on room type and function, and occasionally color. Eve was particular about her organizing, but not in the way that made sense to most people. She put things together intuitively, matched rocking chairs with pool tables. Fuck it, if it looked good, it looked good.

It didn’t take long for something to pique Villanelle’s interest. In fact, most of the arrangements piqued her interest. Eve had to put a limit on the amount she was allowed to buy, something about _you are not funnelling me more money_ . Even so, they seemed to have a shared vision for the house they were filling. It was a pleasantly strange feeling, the idea that someone might _see_ like Eve sees. That someone might walk around the world and come away with the same evaluations.

Especially someone like this someone, Eve wanted to laugh, watching as Villanelle played with the pull string of a 50’s lamp. 

Almost two hours went by before Villanelle tired. She flopped onto a tattered arm-chair, groaning loudly like she had been doing anything other than shopping. 

“My body is aching. I have tried so many _things_.”

“Oh, boo hoo. Poor baby.”

Villanelle pouted, contorting her face as innocently as possible. Eve’s insides twisted. 

“You are old, Eve, you get it. Too much sitting down, getting up. It’s exhausting.”

Eve rolled her eyes. Still, Villanelle had a crumble of a point. She had spent awhile on her feet guiding Villanelle around. She eyed the chair across from Villanelle, a blue loveseat, and sat.

And oh―she groaned unexpectedly―that was nice. Her feet _hurt_. She needed new shoes.

Villanelle chuckled at her, pleased.

“Shut up.”

“You always say that, even when I am not speaking.”

“Those are usually the times when you especially need to shut up.”

“Hm,” Villanelle hummed, eyebrows knotting as if she really was taking the thought to heart. As if. Comfortable in their momentary silence, Villanelle’s eyes found the table in-between them. It was nothing special, a faded thing living out its last days in the depths of Eve’s dust-laden jungle. But what sat on top of it was unexpected: a translucent vase, just barely tinted blue, shaped like a rose. 

Eve stared at it, and swallowed. She hadn’t expected that to turn up. Great. Wonderful. It would be fine, whatever, just as long as―

“That is… beautiful,” Villanelle whispered, leaning forward abruptly to get a closer look at the vase. Eve’s stomach turned. She felt a bit light-headed. Villanelle brought a hand up to its surface, touching it reverently and carefully, as one might touch a gravestone, or a lover. She was properly absorbed by it, admiring it from all sides. 

“Yeah,” Eve said lowly, “it is.”

“I―I would like to have it,” Villanelle stammered, breaking her concentration to look at Eve directly, “not for the house. Just for myself.”

Eve’s skin crawled. It was eerie, the way Villanelle looked at the vase. It was so familiar. She had never seen anyone else look at it like that, like it was made of diamonds and not silicone.

“I can’t,” Eve frowned, “I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” Villanelle pleaded. She looked genuinely affronted, like a predator withheld prey. She was unused to being deprived things she wanted, that much was abundantly clear. 

Eve dwelled on her expectant expression. Passed her eyes from the vase to Villanelle’s face, let the pain of memory possess her. This was the Villanelle that she had met so many days ago, utterly solipsistic. A woman of means who got what she wanted. A woman who saw no difference between compromise and losing.

Eve could build a tower of resentment on these assumptions. She could find ways to hate Villanelle, to jail her once again in a one-dimensional cell. Hate was easy. Fuck, it’d be easier than the alternative, at least. And the alternative was dawning on her quick, like rain turning to hail, hail to cracked windshields, shattered glass. 

Eve’s walls were crumbling.

Her knuckles turned white grasping on the sides of the loveseat. 

“Does that make you mad? That you want it, but you can’t have it?” Eve said icily, a provocation.

In Villanelle’s expression, a dichotomy: a twitch in her eyebrow, a sad frown on her lips. Anger and confusion sidled up on opposite horses, charging forward.

“Yes,” she answered honestly, “why won’t you give it to me?”

Eve paused. 

“You can’t always get everything you want.”

The words felt numb in her mouth, like she wasn’t meant to be wielding them. The hurt in Villanelle’s face made it worse. 

“That’s rude of you, Eve,” Villanelle said, a hint of a laugh. It was clear she could sense something behind Eve’s eyes, a hidden mine. She did not want to tread on it.

“ _I’m_ rude?”

“Right now,” Villanelle said slowly, unsurely, “yes.”

“Huh,” Eve said, old pain reverberating through her skull, “I don’t think so.”

“No?” 

“No,” Eve said coldly, decisively, “I think you’re just selfish, Villanelle.”

And there it was: crank, crank, boom. 

Eve understood what would happen next. Could see it clear as day. Villanelle would get mad; Eve would get mad. They would fight. Maybe there would be screaming. Then it’d be over. Everything would be over. Eve would go back to her boring life and tolerate it, forever.

But, instead, something much, _much_ worse:

Eve started crying.

The dam broke. No―the dam shattered. Eve was sobbing, genuinely sobbing, trembling, messily holding her hands over her eyes to shield herself from the embarrassment. It was a spectacle, watched on all sides by furniture and space and echoing walls. 

She heard the soft creak of Villanelle’s armchair. She could only imagine Villanelle’s face as she stormed away, walked off and left Eve to her shame. Good. Another ending, perhaps. Not the ending she expected, but either way, a needed finality. 

Eve nearly choked on her sob when she felt the loveseat dip, a slim form leaning into her side. 

Softly, _so_ softly, “Eve…” 

Shit. Fuck.

Strong arms surrounded Eve, gentle hands finding their way behind Eve’s head. Villanelle guided Eve into her, pressed her soft and meaningfully into her chest. Ran her fingers down the back of her head, carded through her curls. Eve wanted nothing more than to rip herself from the embrace, run and hide and forget.

No, actually, she did want something more:

She wanted to drown in it.

Reluctantly, she cried until she didn’t. Villanelle’s sweater, a warm cashmere, comforted her through the waves of it. Villanelle’s grip stayed steadily tight through the long minutes, fingers digging tenderly into Eve’s back. 

“Say something,” Eve said dumbly, after she had run out of tears to justify the silence.

Villanelle paused, inhaled softly. Eve expected her to pull away, but she didn’t.

“You are a very loud crier, Eve,” Villanelle chuckled into Eve’s hair, “do you do anything quietly?”

And fuck her, Eve laughed too.

“No, I guess not.”

“Good.”

Villanelle pulled back slowly. She dragged her hands around Eve’s middle, letting them linger at her sides. She waited patiently as Eve lifted her head. Kept her lips a flat, unassuming line as she waited for Eve to speak.

“It was my dad’s favorite piece,” Eve conceded, and shit―great, what was she, a sad story book character? Stricken with grief, prone to lashing out? Trigger-happy with friendship-ending insults?

No, she supposed, the lashing out was all her own. A carefully cultivated brand. Her personality was a stick in the sand. Trauma was just the weather.

An apprehensive hand came to rest on Eve’s cheek. Villanelle pushed a lock of damp hair out of her face, slipped it behind her ear. 

“I _knew_ he had good taste,” Villanelle whispered, eyes looking straight into Eve’s soul, poking it with the tip of a pistol, “you should have told me it was already in such good hands, hm? I cannot buy something that already belongs to someone else.” 

The anger drained from her, all Eve could feel now was clarity.

“God. You are such a sap,” Eve bit her lip. Her eyes flicked down to Villanelle’s lips. They were so red. Eve leaned towards them, ever slightly.

“Oh? I thought I was just selfish?”

Eve flinched.

“Fuck. I’m s―”

“No,” Villanelle shook her head, licked her lips, “do not apologize. I _am_ selfish.”

Villanelle paused, took in a laboured breath.

“But I am other things, too. If you would like to know them.”

Villanelle’s face revealed more than it ever had. Eve had gotten it, exactly what she wanted: a glimpse, a tear of the curtain. Raw vulnerability. Earnest nervousness. 

Now that it was here, Eve realized she had no idea what to do with it. 

“I really would,” Eve admitted, sad and weak and _honest_.

Villanelle smiled.

“If you’d let me,” Eve added.

“I really would,” Villanelle mimicked, teasing.

They sat like that, just staring, smiling, wordless. 

Eve considered that maybe, just maybe, this was their first promise. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i warned y’all it was a slow burn, okay?? forgive me?? 😭 (i promise though, the kiss will be worth the wait. bc feelings )


	8. Prelude To A Kiss

Seeing a precipice is one thing. It is like leering over the edge of a cliff, gazing down into an abyss but not yet falling. Choosing to fall, letting yourself fall; that is a separate matter entirely.

The problem hides here: most people think, mistakenly, that relinquishing power is an act―it is not. There is no handing off of the sword, no trade of the crown. Relinquishing power, letting go of control―it’s a process. It cannot be paired down to a singular moment. Power is exchanged through a _series_ of moments: grand gestures, furtive looks, smiles, innocent touches; it travels between two people through air, unseen and unheard, only felt. 

As she did with other unseen dynamics, Eve has always had a third eye for these types of exchanges. She senses power in the air like a bloodhound tracks a misplaced odor. As a child, Eve was prone to screaming, running, clawing, biting. There was no reliable predictor for what might set her off. Never a gunshot, or a firework display. No, it was the subtleties that terrified her.

Her mother had called her explosive. Her dad had called her sensitive.

Eve, ever the over-achiever, knew herself to be both.

Her relationship with Niko had not been exempt from these feelings. If anything, it had induced them, ran them on radio-repeat, a murderous loop in her head. When he did something sweet, she retreated. When he did something terrible, she smirked and shrugged it off. In truth, she resented getting what she wanted―it meant the ball was no longer in her court. Receiving is a powerless act. There’s no leverage in receiving, no receipt. 

Not to say that Eve was much better at giving. She did give―but it was never to Niko. She gave unendingly to work, to research. She gave money to charity. Auctioning, selling―these were forms of giving, too. But they were safe forms of giving, because they never gave anything back. Eve gave to insatiable voids. 

Villanelle had looked like one of those, too, once. 

But she did not give nice things, normal things. Flowers. Gifts. Thoughts and prayers. Pecks on the cheek. Hugs to the mourning. Sex before bed. Giving, to Eve, was nearly as powerless as receiving. Giving was showing your cards. Giving was admitting something.

When Eve loved―and she had loved Niko, at some point, she supposed―the love was in the staying. The tolerating. The day after day minutia of continuing to _be there_. 

She had tried to explain this to Niko. He couldn’t understand it. She didn’t blame him―it was a fucked worldview. She knew it was fucked. It’s not that she agreed with herself, per se. The ruinous ideology was just there, embedded and ingrained in skin and blood. Permanent, scarred.

Yet she also knew, deep down, that if she had loved him―properly loved him, gutturally loved him―she might have had the incentive to examine her walls. That maybe if she looked long and hard enough, they would dissipate like a weak facade, bricks to mist. But―oh―she never bothered. 

After all, only the willing can change.

So: shattered glass, getaway car, divorce, dad’s couch in Albuquerque. 

And now:

This. 

Eve punched her pillow, screamed into it like a black hole.

  
  
  
  


If Eve had to describe Villanelle in one word, it would be: accelerant.

What Niko couldn’t pull out of her in ten years of marriage, Villanelle had done in a month. 

To say it was maddening, infuriating, psychosis-inducing… would unfortunately be an understatement. It had gone so far past anger that it ended up on the flip-side of the court, circling the drain towards utter, humiliating…

Adoration. 

God, fuck.

She wanted to _kiss_ Villanelle. Kiss the fuck out of her, frankly. Kiss the Russian out of her, the French, all ninety-two languages that somehow cohabitated in her thick skull. Worse, much worse―she wanted to do more than just slam her against a wall. She wanted to _give_ her things. Yes, Eve, that Eve, Eve _Polastri_ wanted to give _Villanelle_ … things. 

The audacity of it all. 

The feeling made her skin turn molten, pumped fire through her veins. She wanted to give Villanelle what she never had; all the small things, the childish things, the soft things. She wanted to marathon the whole Shrek franchise just to watch the look on her face. Oh, not just Shrek―they’d watch Disney too. Ghibli. The whole roster, for fuck’s sake. 

Villanelle made her feel remade. Like the bones and skin that held her up were constructs, that her firmly held beliefs were passing ideologies. Before Villanelle, Eve had been stonehenge. Now she felt like a fucking lilypad. How sad is that?

And how badly Eve wanted to feel sad―to feel completely destroyed by her loss of control. She wanted to mourn it like nothing else, the complete evaporation of her self discipline. 

And yet. 

  
  
  
  


Eve skipped work. 

Which was bad, obviously, because Eve was effectively self-employed. 

“I’m sick,” she informed Hugo over the phone, not even bothering to put on a show.

He laughed hard into her eardrum, “it was that good, yeah?”

Eve stared daggers at nothing in particular. She hoped he could feel it.

“My mattress? No, still shit.”

“Your mattress, huh? Would have bet money that it’d be hers.”

Eve rolled her eyes, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” he clicked his tongue, “and I’m king of Mars.”

Eve shook her head. Hugo had the sense of humor of a goat. Which was to say, none.

“You good to cover by yourself today?”

“Sure,” he laughed, “it’s basically what I do everyday.”

Eve grimaced, “not true.” _A little true_.

“No, you’re right, not true,” Hugo laughed lightly, “but getting there. You’ve clearly found a more appealing gig.”

Eve mulled over that. She knew Villanelle was gravely upsetting the peace of her inner life, but she hadn’t considered how complete the destruction was. She had basically performed a hostile takeover on every facet of Eve’s placid life. 

This woman was going to leave her destroyed _and_ unemployed.

Eve found herself smirking at the thought. Jesus, she was so, so fucked.

“Maybe I have,” Eve said sarcastically, “she sure pays better.”

“Oh? Easy fix, then. Give yourself a raise.”

Eve laughed, “No chance. I’m a shit worker. Worse salesman. I’d fire me if I could.”

“You could. You realize that, right? It’s called selling the place.”

Eve froze. Hugo’s tone was light, scorched with his typical playfulness, but there was a hint of truth there. She had never even considered the idea before now. Never given it the time of day. She had always assumed she’d own the shop until she died, become one of the artifacts hanging from the shelves. Hugo could auction her off―hey, this crazy woman used to own the place! Going once, going twice―it’d be a whole thing. 

“Sell the place? It’s practically my gravesite.”

Hugo laughed.

“You’re not dead yet, Eve. As much as you act like it.”

Eve frowned.

  
  
  
  


Crying was a funny thing. 

On most people, Villanelle detested it. It was ugly. _Weakness_. Boring. People cried because they wanted things. Crying was a socially acceptable form of guilt-tripping. Melancholy manipulation.

Obviously, Villanelle cried. And for all the above reasons. There was never a more direct route to get something you wanted. Why? Because people hate tears. Most people hate them out of fear―they induce a sort of moral paralysis. Did I _hurt_ them? Oh no, did I do something _bad_ ? Villanelle could laugh. She did not get paralyzed, especially _morally_. No, Villanelle hated tears because they were tools. And she did not like people using tools against her.

Strangely, Eve crying was… it was not ugly. Well, it was a _bit_ . But only in a surface level sort of way (that woman _howled_ , dear God). Eve crying was good, actually. It was nice. It was even nicer to hold her. To play with her hair. Such proximity to Eve felt like smelling poppies―a heavenly high and a violent crash all at once. 

So, yes: Villanelle did not hate when _Eve_ cried. She quite liked it. To be clear, she did not _want_ Eve to cry. She just wanted Eve to feel like she could be… What was the word? Villanelle’s mind strained. _Vulnerability._ Mm. Villanelle wanted to see these… vulnerable moments. And she wanted to hold Eve through them, like she did before. And whisper nice things into her skin, and maybe even press a kiss to her cheek, if she felt the moment required it. God―it was all very frustrating, the complexities of these new, dumb, floundering emotions. Where she usually wielded words like blades, with Eve, language felt like a slippery fish. Flapping and flailing and useless.

Villanelle bit her lip and stared down at her phone.

  
  
  
  


Eve’s car twisted sharply into the Villa’s driveway as she muttered a slew of insults at her iPhone’s GPS. Villanelle’s multilingual directions had served her better than this. _Apparently_ the home’s address was not registered on a single map, satellites be damned. More hidden than Area 51, it was a true no man’s zone. Eve huffed. Getting there was terrible, but the anonymity of the residence was unquestionably seductive. Another privilege of the 1%, she supposed.

The circus of delivery trucks occupying the driveway caught her eye immediately. There had to be at least 6. Eve knew Villanelle was an impulsive shopper, but just how big was this budget? A delivery man blew past her, barely a sorry out of his mouth as he hauled a bright blue lamp swiftly past. Eve recognized it immediately. She had forgotten how startling the color was, a completely different vision out of the confines of her dimly lit storage unit.

“Hey!” she yelled, “that’s my lamp you're manhandling!”

He was already out of ear shot. Eve grumbled.

“Oh, Eve. So protective. And of a _lamp_.”

Villanelle’s laugh was explosive. Eve nearly jumped.

“Can you stop doing that?” Eve said, her hand clinging to her chest.

“Why? I like watching you do your little hop.”

Villanelle sauntered up to her. Her hands were shoved confidently in her pockets, her steps measured and slow. Under the morning light, she was every bit the caricature that Eve had first imagined her to be. Cocky. Calculating. 

When she was less than a foot away, Villanelle’s face softened.

“It is nice to see you, Eve,” she remarked quietly. She sounded almost nervous. “I have been thinking about you.”

Eve felt like she swallowed a lump of coal. 

“Thinking about me? Why?”

Villanelle frowned, “why must I have a reason?”

“Because that’s not a normal way to greet someone.”

Villanelle laughed, shook her head, “Eve, I am not normal.”

Eve bit down a smile.

“No, you’re not.”

Villanelle offered Eve a moment to elaborate. She didn’t take it.

“It’s not my fault that you are on my mind. I cannot help it. You will have to lobotomize me if you want to solve that issue.”

Eve laughed. Villanelle seemed to encourage it in her.

“Like that would even work,” Eve argued, “you’d probably find a way to bother me even without a brain. Grip onto my leg like a zombie and never let go.”

Villanelle grinned, “Mm, yes. I think I’d be a rather effective zombie. I am very motivated.”

“That’s one word for it,” Eve shook her head.

“Not doing it for you, hm? How about committed? Devout? Loyal? _Passionate_?” Villanelle murmured, stretching a hand over Eve’s shoulder to press on the car behind her. She was looming over Eve like a Bond villain, eyes undressing her in place.

“How about annoying?” Eve bit back, but it was breathy. 

Villanelle frowned but did not flinch, “Am not.”

“So are.”

Villanelle stayed silent, eyes taking their time to read Eve’s features. Eve’s face was growing flushed. This continued proximity was going to be a problem for her.

Before Eve could do something stupid and reckless like kiss her, Villanelle pulled away. 

“So, I see that you’ve been shopping,” Eve cleared her throat, gesturing towards the mass of trucks suffocating the property. Villanelle grinned, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I love other people’s money.”

“Of course you do.”

Villanelle hopped up on the hood of Eve’s car. Waved her legs back and forth like a child.

“Hey! Get off of there,” Eve scolded. The reaction only intensified the grin on Villanelle’s face.

“Why? This car is shit, Eve. You should let me break it.”

“It is not _shit_ ,” Eve emphasized, “it’s a Rover. And it was expensive.”

“Expensive is relative, Eve.”

“Maybe for someone who owns a ferrari.”

“Ferraris are not expensive. You know what is expensive? A spaceship.”

Eve groaned. This woman’s brain was a spiral staircase to nowhere.

“I don’t care. Get off of there or you owe me spaceship money.”

Villanelle grinned but obliged. Eve made a show of scouring the hood for dents.

“My ass is not _that_ big, Eve.”

Eve was going to kill her. 

  
  
  
  


Two hours passed, and Eve did not succumb to murder.

Yet.

Fortunately for Villanelle, Eve was preoccupied. She would never admit it out loud, but watching Villanelle work was… impressive. She ordered the delivery men around with ease, instructing them like a football coach. That was no metaphor―she treated the ordeal like a sport, gesturing wildly and shouting out ridiculous commands (only partially in English, the poor fools). It surprised Eve she hadn’t brought her own megaphone. 

“Eve.”

Eve blinked, jarred from her thoughts. Villanelle was snapping in front of her face.

“Oh. Hi. What?”

“Are you going to help me? Or am I just paying you to look sexy next to cardboard boxes?”

Eve’s eyebrows jumped. She felt that comment low in her stomach. Villanelle threw it off-handedly, but―Jesus.

“Help you? With what?”

Villanelle narrowed her eyes, “with the house? I know we are friends now Eve, but I do not work well with freeloaders.”

Eve laughed, embarrassment flushing her face. 

“I’m not a―nevermind. Sorry. Just got lost in thought for a moment.”

Villanelle’s face softened. _Shit_.

“Were you thinking about―”

“No,” Eve cut her off briskly. Villanelle frowned.

“It’s okay if you were,” Villanelle said, soft but adamant. Eve was reminded of the first time she said it, their hands stuck together like glue on a trolley down the mountains.

“I wasn’t,” Eve defended, honest. _I was thinking about you_ , _dumbass,_ she failed to add.

“Okay,” Villanelle said with a smirk, letting the issue drop, “so if you are not busy being sad, you can _definitely_ help me. Get over here.”

  
  
  
  


For the good part of an hour, Villanelle and Eve roamed. The house was no longer vacant―noted progress―but now a new problem had arisen. It was brimming, unbridled chaos. The goods had arrived, now they had to be assembled. 

They handled each room strategically: Eve brainstormed ideas for the space, Villanelle wrote them down, scribbling furiously into an architect’s notepad. Little sketches of chairs and sofas, drawings of dressers and lamps. Eve couldn’t help but smile a little at her undivided focus. Everything that escaped Eve’s lips seemed like a revelation to Villanelle, a stroke of genius that needed preserving.

Eve’s pulse quickened. It was… sexy, to be taken so seriously. Sweet, even.

_Ugh._

The last room on their decorating tour de force was the study. It was Eve’s favorite room, and she sensed that it was Villanelle’s, too. It was stowed away behind a faux bookcase (because of course it was) and shaped like a prism, hardwood on all sides. Eve couldn’t help herself.

“What is it with you and wood?” Villanelle accused amusedly, watching Eve thumb over the walls.

“It’s the natural world’s finest material. Sue me for appreciating it.”

“I just might.”

Eve turned away from the wall and smiled. Villanelle was grinning back. 

“So, what do we do with the place?” Villanelle raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I think we should―”

“Fill it with balloons?”

Eve frowned. Villanelle raised her hands.

“Ok, maybe not balloons. But this place definitely screams _party_.”

Eve scoffed, “Villanelle, it’s a tiny room hidden behind a bookcase. We’ll be lucky if we can fit a chair and a desk.”

“Mm, exactly,” Villanelle mused, “no chair. No desk. Maybe a couch?”

Eve’s jaw dropped, incredulous, “a couch? That’d take up the whole room. Where would she put her things?”

“Mm. Good point. Maybe we get a chest for those. Or a shelf, if she’d like to display them―”

“What?” Eve questioned slowly, properly confused, “why would she put her laptop in a chest? This is clearly a study.”

Realization dawned on Villanelle. Her eyes went bug-eyed.

“Ohh,” she said dramatically, loud and then quiet, “you think this is a study.”

“Yes?”

“Eve, this is a room for sex.”

Eve’s stomach did a backflip. No, make that a cartwheel.

“What?”

“Duh,” Villanelle repeated, grinning, “why else would you hide it? For _privacy_.”

“People like privacy for reasons other than sex, Villanelle.”

Villanelle’s face screwed up in confusion, as if the thought had really, truly never occurred to her.

“I doubt it,” she murmured, “either way, this place is obviously made for fucking.”

 _Made for fucking_. Eve felt nauseous.

“What’s with the huge window then? Not exactly what I’d want for my sex cave.”

Villanelle grinned, “Oh, now I am curious, Eve. What _would_ you want in your sex cave?”

Eve glared.

“Anyway, there are shades. So the voyeurism is optional,” Villanelle shrugged.

“I do not think the client is going to be happy if we turn her _study_ ,” Eve aggressively emphasized the word, “into a makeshift sex dungeon. Just my two cents.”

Villanelle pretended to take her input into consideration, humming and narrowing her eyes.

“You obviously do not know Carolyn.”

“Oh?” Eve challenged.

“Yes, she is a bit like a sex maniac,” Villanelle grinned, enjoying the way her choice of words made Eve’s face go pale, “you would never know it. She is very professional.”

Villanelle pronounced professional as if it was a wild, hilarious joke. Eve supposed that it might be, at least to Villanelle. From their interactions thus far, professionalism seemed a totally foreign concept.

“I am not putting a couch in here.”

“Fine, then I will,” Villanelle shrugged, smirking her way past Eve and into the adjacent room, “just make yourself useful and keep the door open.”

Eve balked, watching incredulously as Villanelle searched the remaining, untouched inventory. It barely took a minute before she was pushing a tan loveseat towards her, the floorboards screaming.

‘Stop that! You’ll scratch the floors,” Eve yelped, stepping in front of the couch, “let me help you.”

“I knew you would come around,” Villanelle grinned, lifting the couch off the ground with Eve’s reluctant aid. 

“I haven’t,” Eve grumbled.

Eve walked backwards into the small room, the two of them shifting and turning and bickering until they could comfortably lower the seat onto the ground. When it was finally settled, Eve stepped away, taking it in from a different angle. 

Ugh. It kind of worked.

“You are making that face you make when I’m right,” Villanelle effused victoriously, “you like it.”

“I don’t make a face―”

“Yes you do. Now come on Eve, help me find some sexy lighting.”

  
  
  
  


So, the room looked fucking fantastic.

“It’s still a study,” Eve warned before Villanelle could read her face again.

“Hm. If that is what you need to tell yourself.”

“It’s a fact.”

“Mm. Then I would love for you to explain the handcuffs…”

Eve’s head snapped in Villanelle’s direction. She was indeed holding up a pair of handcuffs.

“Where in the fuck did you find those?”

“ _Hidden in the floorboards,_ ” Villanelle whispered.

“Bullshit,” Eve blurted, grabbing them out of Villanelle’s hands. There was still a price tag attached. 

“Okay. I am caught,” Villanelle raised her hands dramatically, “I did get them for Carolyn, though. Special surprise. I am sure she will love it.”

“Knowing everything I know about you, I highly doubt that,” Eve shook her head, biting down a smile. Villanelle grinned at her anyways. 

“I am a great reader of people, Eve. And last time I saw Carolyn, I read _badly needs to get laid_. It was all very blatant. So I am helping her out. Really, I am kind.”

“Kind. Right. That’s the word that springs to mind,” Eve shook her head in amusement and tossed the handcuffs onto the end table. Naturally, she missed, and they slipped off and onto the floor.

“Wow, Eve. Excellent aim. You should try sports.”

Eve huffed, shoving past Villanelle to pick them off the ground. 

“Mm, I take it back. You are way too aggressive,” Villanelle chided, eyes trailing down Eve’s back as she bent down. Eve could practically feel Villanelle’s lewd gaze branding her skin.

“Isn’t that a good thing? Football isn’t about cuddling.”

Villanelle raised a provocative eyebrow. She approached Eve slowly from behind, effectively pinning her into the small corral of space between the couch and the end table. Eve’s heart hammered in her chest, an unhinged bull. She felt just like that―an animal tied back by only a shoestring. Eve turned back to face her.

“A good thing for you, maybe,” Villanelle murmured slyly, eyes dropping innocently to Eve’s mouth, “not so much for the health and wellbeing of your opponent.” 

“Who cares about that?” 

Villanelle laughed, sharp and loud. She relished in Eve’s brusqueness. 

“You are terrible,” Villanelle said, poking gently at Eve’s shirt. The finger stayed a moment too long, deliberately dragged along the fabric. They both noticed.

“Like you’re any better,” Eve challenged. And it was a challenge―a proper one. Not just in words, but in eyes. She was daring Villanelle, egging her on to some unknown conclusion. Villanelle hummed and licked her lips. Something unfamiliar flicked past her eyes. Doubt? Apprehension? Eve’s breathing was unsteady, a tremor in her chest.

The atmosphere was certainly not helping. The couch, now accompanied by the end table and a long, glass lamp, left but a foot of space for the pair to share. With the bookcase closed firmly behind them, Villanelle and Eve were alone in near darkness, the only illumination peeking in behind drawn shades and the gentle light emitting from the lone lightbulb.

“No, I really am not,” Villanelle admitted softly, barely audible. She was looking straight at Eve, saucer eyes boring into Eve’s with no pretense. Eve trembled, her body suddenly buzzing with want. Within a single minute, Eve had become totally unmoored―her attraction to Villanelle painted with all the subtlety of a traffic sign on her face.

Eve breathed in, then out. She watched Villanelle’s hand rise to her face, cup her cheek with an unholy tenderness. A thumb brushed against the tip of her eyelash, dipped into the inset of her skull. Her entire body pulsed―desire once delegated to daydreams had turned from benign to nuclear, coursing through Eve’s veins at breakneck speed. 

“Huh,” Eve stalled, a machine overheating. Villanelle’s eyes had strayed to somewhere past Eve, far away, a void. Eve wanted nothing more than to go there with her, to drag her out or drown.

“Villanelle,” Eve said lightly, testing.

Villanelle’s eyes shifted back to her. But her expression was different somehow, starkly unfamiliar. Her lips were the slightest bit ajar, eyebrows the slightest bit knotted. The look was simple, bare, filled with a frightening clarity. Eve felt it in the pit of her stomach.

“Yes?”

“You’re―you’re touching my face,” Eve said bluntly. _Jesus Christ. Astute._

“Oh, I am,” Villanelle said, as if she had barely noticed, “do you mind?”

“Not particularly,” Eve bit her lip. Villanelle grinned just slightly, quietly, before dropping her hand. As soon as it was gone, Eve missed it viscerally, felt the place where it once lay like a firebrand.

“You didn’t have to―”

“When you stare at me…” Villanelle interjected, licking her lips, “what are you thinking about?”

Eve’s insides felt like they were ricocheting―blood out of vessel, joint out of socket. The question itself wasn’t new. Villanelle had posed it a dozen times, directly and indirectly, serious and playful. What was new was the certainty behind it; it left no room for equivocating, not a single inch of space to dart and hide. 

“It depends,” Eve managed. Not a lie. 

“Okay, I will rephrase it,” Villanelle breathed out, voice barely above a whisper, “what are you thinking about right now?”

Eve blinked. Weighed her options. Realized there were none.

“You.”

“Mm,” Villanelle hummed, stepping closer. Eve hadn’t thought it was possible. The distance between them was microscopic. A loose strand of Villanelle’s hair hit her cheek, tickling it lightly. It felt like a forest fire, spreading, spreading―

“And what about me are you thinking about?” The sentence was mumbled nearly against Eve’s lips, the air intermingling between them.

“I think I asked you the same thing earlier,” Eve said, so low as to not shatter the delicate bubble of air they shared. It was her last defense, her last attempted evasion. 

“Do you want my answer?” 

“Yes,” Eve mumbled. Villanelle probed her eyes once more. Posed a final, unsaid question.

Eve swallowed, and continued, “God, yes―”

Eve’s sentence died on Villanelle’s lips. 

Eve’s eyes, wide open, shuttered quickly into the contact. Villanelle’s lips pressed against hers like a loaded gun―hot and direct, waiting for permission. Eve breathed her in, raising her hand to hungrily bury in Villanelle’s hair. She tugged it gently. Villanelle whimpered into her mouth. 

The sound echoed deep into Eve, “Villanelle―”

Villanelle answered her with her hands: around Eve’s neck, tugging Eve into her like the tide pulling in the coastline. Their bodies melted into each other. Eve’s hands pulling gently at Villanelle’s hair, Villanelle’s palms running across the flat of Eve’s back. Villanelle pressed kiss after kiss to Eve’s lips, tender and soft and relentless.

And oh, God, the softness―it was all so much more delicate than Eve could have ever imagined. It was fire and ice, rushed and desperate but _clinging_ , a perilous need to get closer, deeper. Villanelle touched her reverently, delicately, careful not to bruise. 

Villanelle ran her tongue slowly across Eve’s lips. The sensation pierced Eve like a shiv, the world outside falling away, descending into void. It was just them. _Just them_ . The thought made her legs weak. She opened her mouth zealously, kissing Villanelle deeply. It felt dirty, brazen. But Villanelle responded instantly, rocking into her, her middle pinning Eve to the end table. _Fuck_ . They were nearly panting, barely a breath between them. Eve bit lightly on Villanelle’s bottom lip. Villanelle made another high-pitched sound, light and breathy. _Holy_ , Eve thought.

The exchange quickly turned from curious to spitfire, Villanelle leading them fitfully into the loveseat. Their mouths barely parted as they readjusted carelessly on the cushions. Villanelle perched herself on an elbow, pressing kisses languidly to the side of Eve’s mouth, then her jaw, and finally her neck.

“Fuck, Villanelle―” Eve moaned.

Eve felt Villanelle smile against her neck. She kissed it tenderly, slowly, before raising her head up to look at Eve. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark green eyes inflated balloons. Eve’s chest clenched so heavily at the sight that it felt nearly like a heart attack. She had never in her life felt something so overpowering―the bloated want low in her stomach, the insatiable need to give, give, _give_. She wanted it all, everything―to feel every slope of Villanelle’s body under her fingernails, to hold it, cradle it, worship it.

“You are so beautiful,” Villanelle said, completely breathless.

Then: a series of footsteps, loud and clumsy, and a deep bellow ringing out from another room. Their bodies froze in place, Eve’s heart nearly climbing out of her chest.

“Villanelle! Where are you?” Konstantin’s voice echoed, “do not be rude. Give your old man a house tour.” He laughed to himself.

Eve had never seen murder written on someone’s face before. But there it was, living blatantly in Villanelle’s eyes. Villanelle groaned lightly and rested her head to Eve’s chest, hair falling clumsily over Eve’s shirt. Eve wanted so badly to card her fingers through it, to lose herself in the sensation of Villanelle’s face resting over her heart.

“Konstantin will die for this,” she mumbled into fabric. 

Eve could not agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK ME FOREVER. omg. i really wanted to get this right. i swear i rewrote that last scene like 34 times. i hope it paid off


	9. Poor Stool

That night, Villanelle dreamt of skydiving.

She had never had a dream so visceral―so completely convincing, it gripped her with two hands and dragged her from the sky and towards the earth’s flat fields. A complete freefall. She was on her back, face and eyes trained towards the skies. Within seconds the plane had become a tiny dot of white in the distance, indistinguishable from a star or a passing cloud. Her blood was pumping so loudly she could hear it despite the crackling wind, a resonant thump, thump, thump that played like a metronome as it counted the seconds until she hit the ground.

In her dream she had no parachute. Just her hands, feet, and skull. She reached forward to prepare for landing, hoping against all odds that she’d hit the earth like a cat, on all fours. 

She never found out. The stress of anticipation overwhelmed her, yanked her out of sleep like a reeled-in fishing rod. Her eyes blinked open and she shot up in bed, curling around herself limply, panting.

When her breathing slowed, she bit her lip and let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

She got out of bed and turned on her lamp. In the dim illumination, she found her reflection in the mirror atop her dresser. She studied herself, raking her skin for any signs of metamorphosis, anything to reveal the person she was now that she wasn’t yesterday.

She stared at the small bruise forming just under her jaw. It was a small, dainty thing, a barely-there hue of purple that sat just between bone and skin. The pure sight of it made Villanelle’s pulse ricochet, her fingers clenching around her neck, reliving the feeling. 

Falling to your death, palms first, was one thing. 

But nothing was as deliciously terrifying as being kissed by Eve.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Bill, answer your goddamn phone _right now_ for the love of God.”

Voicemail number three. Eve screamed and threw her phone at the floor. She didn’t stop to check if it cracked.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Eve was ignoring her. 

“Eve is ignoring me.”

“And why is that my problem?” Konstantin said, not bothering to look up from his phone. 

Villanelle frowned. 

The pair were sharing coffee and the shade of a cafe umbrella, sitting toe-to-toe on opposing lawn chairs. Konstantin was doing his best to concentrate on his morning stream of emails, thick thumbs sliding impatiently across his phone screen. Villanelle was trying her best to be the center of attention.

“Hey, hey!” she yelled, smacking the side of his arm with a rolled up magazine, “it is your problem because it is my problem. Or have you forgotten the terms of our arrangement?”

Konstantin grimaced, a flick of hot coffee dripping onto his hand.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We have no arrangement.”

“Yes we do, silly,” she rolled her eyes, “you pay me money and listen to my problems. I buy you nice things. It is a more equal partnership than most marriages.”

Konstantin laughed, “you’d call that equal, eh? And whose money are you buying those nice things with?”

“Oh, I know this one,” Villanelle said excitedly, scrunching her nose, “Carolyn’s.”

Konstantin shook his head, quietly amused. He took another long sip of coffee.

“Wrong again. Mine.”

“Ugh. I do not care if it belongs to you, or Carolyn, or some fat goblin named Eyore,” Villanelle groaned, “who cares whose money it is? It is just _money_.”

“I do. And I think you’d care a lot more if it suddenly stopped rolling into your bank account.”

Villanelle huffed and unrolled the issue of Bon Appétit balled in her right hand. She had been avidly taking notes on an article entitled _Burrito Making for Beginners._

“That does not concern me,” Villanelle shrugged, underlining another line. _The way you prepare the tortilla is key_. “I am rich enough.”

“Oh?” Konstantin eyed her in disbelief, “I find this hard to believe. Just last month you were begging me for a raise. Something about purchasing a yacht, yes?”

Villanelle’s hand froze on the page, and she glared at him.

“I changed my mind,” she disputed, “boats are for losers.”

“Ah. Such an abrupt change of heart,” Konstantin hummed, “you were even going to hire a crew. Make them wear matching uniforms, no? Oh, and something about testing those maritime murder laws.”

Villanelle threw the magazine right at his chest. It fell limply into his lap.

“The dementia is kicking into full gear, старик. You should consider a doctor’s appointment.”

“Could be,” he shrugged, “or maybe you are just experiencing a change of priorities.”

Konstantin eyed her meaningfully, sipping slowly and noisily at his coffee. 

Villanelle did not appreciate whatever annoying _sentiment_ it was he was trying to convey. If he was going to lecture her, he could at least do it with real words, not furtive glances.

“Stop speaking nonsense. My priorities have not gone anywhere,” she defended, eyebrows knitted in comical frustration, “nice things. Nice clothes. Nice car. Job that doesn’t make me want to blow my brains out.”

“Right,” he said, still skeptical, “and perhaps, now, a very nice woman.”

Villanelle rolled her eyes and groaned.

“She is _not_ that nice.”

He laughed, “Right. I cannot possibly imagine why she would ignore _you_.”

Villanelle pouted and reclined deeper into her chair. The sarcasm soared straight over her head.

“No, me neither.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Bill Pargrave was not a high-maintenance sort of friend. He expected a basic amount of trust, a modicum of honesty, and maybe a few beers and a laugh every other month.

Eve Polastri provided each of these things to middling degrees of success. 

Well, Bill mused, that would be a bit over an overstatement. On the first and second marks, Eve in fact failed terribly. A capital F drawn in red marker. Eve was easily the least forthcoming individual he had ever met―a closed book wrapped in a straight jacket. Eve approached difficult conversations like a crazed defense attorney, pointed fingers and rabid eyes. Have you ever been in love? _Objection!_ So, how’d your marriage end, Eve? _Inadmissible. Irrelevant. What’s it to you?_

All in all, an innocent inquiry into her personal life could have you running for the foothills with your pants around your ankles. So, bless him, Bill had learned to avoid the land minds. 

That was until Eve started stepping on them herself.

“She’s a total asshole,” Eve fumed over the phone. Bill could practically hear her pacing.

“Is she, Eve? After listening to that endlessly stimulating retelling of your little decorating escapade, I must admit I’m lost to how you came to that conclusion.”

Eve gave a pained gasp, and Bill couldn’t help but laugh into the receiver. If she was going to go on peddling lies, he was going to go on knocking them over like dominoes.

“Um, the whole thing? Were you even listening?” she refuted disbelievingly.

“Of course I was. It was the performance of the century. But for your sake, let me see if I heard you right,” Bill drawled, clearing his throat dramatically, “so you showed up at the house. The house she invited _you_ to decorate _with her_. For whatever, selfless reason. Then she… sat on the hood of your car? That seemed to be a big issue for you, I recall. And then you all went inside―”

“Are you kidding? You know how much money that car cost―”

“Uh huh. Like you haven’t been involved in at least three separate accidents this year. Anyway,” Bill continued, cutting Eve off, “then you two lovebirds finished your bickering and went inside. She got the workers to move everything in. Ordered everyone around like a real dictator, it was probably all very attractive. I don’t blame you for standing there like a lost deer.”

“Attractive? Hardly. And I was not just _standing_ , I was brainstorming―”

“And then she had the audacity to ask you to help her! Really, the balls on this woman.”

“It _was_ audacious! Christ. You didn’t hear her tone. So annoying. She was completely fucking with me―”

“Right, the tone she was using when she called you, and I quote, sexy.”

Eve’s protests cut off in an instant, replaced by a stunned silence.

“Workplace harassment,” she muttered.

“You two fumbling around some millionaire’s mansion hardly constitutes a workplace, sweetheart.”

Eve clearly had nothing to say to that, so she let him continue.

“And then, and here’s the kicker―she put a couch in a room that was _too tiny_ for a couch,” Bill gasped, “she should be jailed. Arrested. Death penalty.”

Eve groaned.

“That was a shitty summary,” Eve glowered, but she had clearly been defeated. There was no way to put it that made Villanelle look any more a villain than a cat knocking over a vase.

“Well, maybe your story is missing a few key details, then,” Bill suggested.

Eve went quiet again. Bill readied himself to be yelled at.

Instead, Eve sighed.

“Maybe,” she relented, “I might have omitted… one or two things.”

“Oh?” Bill said, playing up the innocence to an embarrassing degree.

“Don’t push your luck,” she muttered, “we―alright, fuck it. She kissed me. I kissed her. Whatever! We were arguing about the study―sex dungeon, I’m sure Villanelle would prefer, the _asshole_ ―and then, I don’t know. Things got out of hand? Fuck.”

Bill had never in his life had to so _deeply_ hold back an “I told you so.”

“I knew it!” he yelped. So much for that.

“Shut up,” Eve groaned. Bill could hear the wanton distress evident in her voice. Oh, this was good. This was great. 

“This is bloody brilliant.”

“No, it’s not. Not at all. Do not say that.”

“I’m saying it. It’s absolutely fucking fantastic. Speaking of fucking―”

“No! God, no. We did not… we did not fuck in Carolyn’s house.”

“Ah, so in the car then? Or at her place? Definitely not yours, with that sorry mattress…”

“No!” Eve insisted, and then stalled, a guilty silence following, “we didn’t… anywhere. We―I just went home.”

“Eve… You didn’t.”

“I did. Of course I did!”

“You fucked off.”

“I totally fucked off,” Eve conceded, “I told her I’d call her about the house and broke about ten different traffic laws speeding back home. And now it’s been a day and I haven’t responded to any of her messages and now I’m here, with you, on the phone, being an asshole.”

Bill shook his head, tutting into the receiver. Now this was a very typical Eve maneuver. It would have almost warmed his heart at the familiarity, if it wasn’t entirely stupid and self-destructive. 

“And why haven’t you responded to her?”

“Because―”

“No bullshit, Eve.”

Eve sighed again. _No bullshit._

“I just… God, it’s just electrifying―being with her. Like I’m attached to some sort of malfunctioning electric chair. My fucking nerves are fried. My brain is fried―just stuck on a never-ending loop of her lips and her body and the way she talks. Her stupidly attractive accent,” Eve groaned, “God, it’s completely obsessive. Psychopathic. She is literally always on my mind. Even when I’m dreaming. There is no off switch. No sedative or escape or _distraction_.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“It is not! It’s mortifying!” Eve emphasized, “It’s like that kind of hormone-crazed childhood crush that makes you pull out your hair and cry to mixtapes in your car. Except I’m _not_ a child Bill, I’m a middle-aged small business owner and she’s what, worth millions of dollars? Probably? And the thing is, it’s not even the money―I could give a flying fuck about the money. Or the work. It’s just her. It’s completely about her.” 

The confession sat in empty air for a few moments, Bill affording Eve a chance to breathe.

But this was Eve, of course. Once the cogs had started churning they did not stop. So she took in a gulp of air, and let her thoughts finish their triathlon. 

“Three months ago I would have told you that I’d _prefer_ dying alone. Bury me in an expensive hardwood coffin and I’d say, well, that was life. Here lies Eve Polastri, let it be known that she _tried._ I have my will written out and everything. I left the store to Hugo. _Hugo_ , Bill. How embarrassing is that? But now, when I imagine my future…”

“It doesn’t look the same?”

Eve laughed, but it was light, tired, defeated.

“Yeah. And that’s fucking terrifying.”

  
  
  
  


_Eve:_ Hey

 _Eve_ : I have good news. But don’t get your panties in a twist.

 _Hugo_ : I’ll try and contain my excitement.

 _Hugo:_ I finally get to take home the giant phallic cactus?

 _Eve_ : Are we kidding? Is that seriously your first concern?

 _Eve_ : And fine, whatever. Take the weird cactus. If it hasn’t sold in the three years we’ve had it, it’s not selling anytime soon.

 _Hugo_ : YES!!! Best boss ever. 

_Eve:_ I told you to tone it down, boy scout. Let me finish.

 _Eve:_ I’m giving you a raise. 

_Hugo:_ Brb, gotta knock myself out. Think I’m dreaming.

 _Hugo:_ Omg. Wait. Eve. Are you dying? 

_Eve_ : Jesus Christ. No. Am I that terrible a boss?

 _Eve:_ Don’t answer that.

 _Eve_ : We’ll talk about the details later. 

_Hugo_ : K. Lmk if you are dying forreal though. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Konstantin, I have a serious question. So do not be an arsehole.”

Konstantin looked to his side to find Villanelle staring out the car window, her fingers tracing lazily across the misted screen.

“You? Serious? I am all ears.”

Villanelle rolled her eyes. Konstantin could tell she had given a lot of thought to whatever it was she had to say. She had been silent for over half the ride, a radical, commendable feat.

“How do you know that you like someone?”

This was new.

Konstantin could not restrain a smile. Villanelle had asked him for advice before, on occasion―how to properly price a house, how to scam someone on Facebook Marketplace. Business inquiries. Traditional stuff.

“Stop smiling,” she glared, “I told you, this is serious. If you start laughing, I will slit your throat.”

His smile dropped, but only by a bit.

“That is not an easy question to answer. You just know, Villanelle. It is like being hungry. You feel it in your gut, and it is very annoying and persistent.”

“What?” she crossed her arms, “That’s a dumb answer. Try again.”

“It is not dumb―it is the truth. Liking people is an unfortunate human flaw. People are terrible. How do you know if you like them? If you tolerate them enough to keep them around.”

“Bullshit. I tolerate many people I do not like. If I liked everyone I tolerated, I would have many more friends, and many less people who have reported me to the police and the Better Business Bureau.” 

Konstantin bellowed out a laugh, turning sharply on the steering wheel. They had arrived at Villanelle’s sad, mossy apartment complex. He looked at her expectantly, gesturing to the door, but she did not look like she had any intention of exiting the car. 

“Okay, I will try again, just for you,” he huffed, “but I do not know why you’re asking me―I might just have more enemies than you do. And not all of them are stay-at-home moms looking for ebay returns.”

“This is true, your customer rating is ass,” she said with emphasis, “but you also have a wife, so I am sure you must know something about liking to have trapped her into liking you.”

Konstantin laughed. She was never one to mince words. Even so, her nervous expression did not carry the same bravado as her accusations. She worried her lip, nursing a frustrated frown. Konstantin could tell she was digging for something an inch below dirt.

It dawned on him.

“Ah. So this is about love, then. Very different. Much worse.”

Villanelle frowned, her skin as bright as a fire hydrant. 

“I never said anything about _love_ ,” she stressed, distaste curling around the word, “you are an idiot. I just want to know what someone is expected to do with these stupid feelings. They are like brain worms, making me act very strange. I have been eating ice cream late at night and having dreams about falling out of planes.”

“Mm. Feelings will do that to you. When I got married I had nightmares about getting beaten to death for the next two years. Every single night. Usually with a fork, but sometimes with a lamp.”

Villanelle screwed up her face in disgust.

“You are very weird.”

He laughed, pointing a finger at her. “Look who is talking, eh?”

She ignored him and pulled the handle on the car door.

“Okay, I am leaving. This discussion was useless,” she exited the car with a forced smile, “do not contact me unless it is about a raise.”

He shook his head. Kids.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Villanelle_ : Eve

 _Villanelle_ : Eve Eve Eve Eve EVEEEE

 _Villanelle_ : Stop ignoring me

 _Villanelle_ : This is not very mature, Eve. You are too old for this.

 _Villanelle_ : Okay, you have forced me. If you do not respond within the next five minutes, I will give your store a 1 star rating on Yelp. 

_Eve_ : Don’t you DARE.

 _Villanelle_ : Oops. Too slow.

 _Villanelle_ : I get bored very fast, Eve. You should really know better.

 _Eve_ : Omg. Take it down. Now.

 _Villanelle_ : Hmm.. I don’t know. It was a very well-written review. It took me many hours. 

_Eve_ : You are such a dick.

 _Villanelle_ : I am not a dick. I am simply using my American right to free speech. Future customers deserve to know the truth.

 _Eve:_ Oh my god. I am going to kill you.

 _Eve_ : RAT INFESTED?

 _Eve_ : RAT INFESTED????

 _Villanelle_ : You focus on that? Not the part where I call you sexy?

 _Eve_ : Take. This. Down.

 _Villanelle_ : Fine. I will barter.

 _Villanelle_ : I take this down, you invite me over.

 _Villanelle_ : You know, for friendly drinks. Maybe some cards.

 _Villanelle_ : It’s the least you can do after ignoring me. So rude, Eve.

 _Eve_ : …

 _Eve_ : Ugh. Fine. You’re impossible. But if you get here and this review is still online, I’m coming at you with an axe.

 _Villanelle_ : Seems only fair.

 _Villanelle_ : See you soon x

  
  
  
  
  
  


Eve spent the good part of twenty-three minutes panicking, and _not_ about a bad Yelp review. Her living room had never looked smaller―a measly couch barely big enough to fit herself and a bag of chips. What if Villanelle wanted to sit down? What if she wanted to sit down, too? She refused to let that situation play out. Way too close. Way too much proximity. She dragged a tiny stool from her kitchen onto the rug.

_There. Better. Now we both have a place to sit._

Eve blinked. 

She was going insane.

The doorbell rang.

 _Shit. Shit. Fuckity fuck._ Eve threw her hands into her hair reflexively and pulled. That was a mistake―her muscles reacted like clockwork to the memory of Villanelle’s fingers dragging across her skull, her back, her stomach. The feeling radiated over her body like the kiss had been only seconds ago.

Great. There was no way she was going to survive this. 

Eve took in a deep breath and steadied herself. She reached for the doorknob and pulled.

“Don’t worry, Eve. I got rid of your rat problem.”

God―why did Eve even bother? She could not have prepared herself for that face: those innocent eyes and devilish cupid-bow lips. Those bootcut corduroys, designer. That neckline, a precarious V. But mostly that _voice_. It had only been a day, but it was alarming how much she missed it. 

“There was never a rat problem,” Eve grimaced, “get in here before I change my mind.”

Villanelle obliged, walking straight past Eve.

“So hospitable,” she smiled, removing her coat and draping it over a hook. 

Eve grunted in reply.

Villanelle took little time before she began to invade Eve’s privacy. Eve really shouldn’t have been surprised―Villanelle was like a comic-book vampire: once you invited her in, social etiquette was off the table. It wouldn’t be long until she has her teeth in your neck.

 _Proverbially_ , Eve swallowed. _Before she has her hands in your stuff, you know. Metaphors._

“You have a beautiful house, Eve,” Villanelle commented, eyes and hands wandering around the living room. It reminded Eve of the expression she had the first time they met, so oddly studious. She examined places like an archeologist, picking up photo frames like they were archaic fossils; Gripped them tightly like they may reveal supernatural mysteries.

“Who is this?” Villanelle asked, pointing to the girl aside Eve in one of her old pictures.

“Oh. Elena,” Eve joined Villanelle by the mantle of her fireplace, “we grew up together in Connecticut. Played on the same rugby team.”

Villanelle smirked wildly.

“Rugby, hm? I knew you were aggressive.”

“Shut up.”

“Nope. How many penalties did you get? A lot, I think.”

Eve blushed, ripping the frame from Villanelle’s hands and setting it back on the mantle.

“Definitely a lot,” Villanelle grinned.

“Whatever. It’s not my fault girls are too sensitive.”

Villanelle laughed, shaking her head. Eve’s chest fluttered at the sound.

“Was Elena too sensitive?” 

“Nah, she was solid. She didn’t have to worry about being shoved anyways. She was too quick. Meanwhile I was way too in my head to be any good at it―I’d already be on the ground in a pileup by the time I remembered I was holding the ball.”

“Now that I would really like to see. Oh, I know―you should join an adult league! I would cheer from the stands, I promise. I will be a cheerleader and everything.”

That got a proper laugh from Eve. 

“I would look fucking ridiculous, dear god.”

“Or very sexy. That uniform...” Villanelle rose her eyebrows comically, poking Eve in the side. 

Eve shoved her hand away, “yeah, absolutely not.”

Villanelle frowned, “you are such a dream-crusher.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t add that to the Yelp review.”

“Mm, I was close. It was between that and talking about the giant phallic cactus you have hiding behind the cabinets.”

“You and Hugo, Christ,” Eve laughed, “It’s officially his, actually. Sorry if you were on the waitlist.”

“Oh, I definitely was not. I would rather be killed, painfully, then put that in a house. But it is reassuring to know that he has terrible taste. The shop is in very good hands.”

Eve snorted. How topical―that place was utterly screwed. Maybe the rat-infested Yelp review would have been a blessing in disguise. Put it out of its misery.

“So…” Villanelle drawled, her eyes dragging up Eve’s body, “are we going to talk about it?”

Eve stiffened.

“About…”

“Do not play dumb, Eve.”

Villanelle was smirking, but there was a glint of impatience in her eyes. It made Eve’s insides feel like soup. She was not ready for this conversation. She needed at least two more years of thorough preparation and a few martinis.

“Do you want a drink?” Eve offered in place of an answer. She was saving herself time. Pitifully? Yes. But dignity was not in high supply.

Luckily, Villanelle was feeling merciful.

“You want to play hostess? Okay,” Villanelle laughed, waving Eve off towards the kitchen, “I will be over here looking pretty and pretending not to notice that you are avoiding the question.”

Maybe not that merciful, Eve grimaced.

  
  
  


Eve prepared them two drinks: rum and coke.

“It’s all I had,” Eve said bashfully, biting her lip. She placed the pair of them on the living room table between the couch and the stool. Naturally, Villanelle had taken the couch. She had notably saved an inch of space, just enough for Eve to squeeze into.

Hypothetically.

“Please do not tell me that stool is always there.”

Eve sat down on it and rolled her eyes.

“Of course it is. Why else would it be here?”

Villanelle laughed, “because you are scared to touch me?”

Eve nearly choked on her first sip. She felt like they were playing darts, only Villanelle was the only one throwing them. 

“You know, before I met you, I had nothing against stools,” Villanelle slipped her drink from the table, eyes never leaving Eve, “now they are starting to bother me.”

“The stool did nothing to you.”

“False. It is doing something to me right now.”

Villanelle’s eyes were raking over her, gaze as blatant as a spotlight in a dark theater. Eve’s skin had never felt hotter, nerves buzzing like kept bees. It dawned on her then just how much she wanted her―fiercely, needily. She wanted to throw her glass across the room, let it smash to pieces on tile. Wanted to rip the whole room apart until there was nothing left but them and air.

“Fine. Let’s talk about it,” Eve said, setting the glass down. 

Villanelle’s trance broke, surprise etched on her features. 

“Oh,” she said softly, “okay.”

They stared at each other, wordless. Eve had never felt air so weighty, so damp with tension and want and unspoken desires. 

“I will start,” Villanelle volunteered, licking her lips, “we kissed.”

Eve couldn’t help but smile a little at the lunacy of it, how the sentence made her heart hammer in her chest. Hearing it vocalized―it felt different, somehow. Less like a dream. More concrete. More real.

More like it could happen again.

“That did happen, yes.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Eve took another long sip of her drink. Talking made it real. Talking made it real.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Villanelle said, and suddenly she was rising from the sofa. Eve stared at her, dumbfounded, watching as she circled around the table and found her way in front of Eve.

“What are you―”

Villanelle’s hands slithered around Eve’s neck, her legs falling over Eve’s as she lowered herself into Eve’s lap. Eve could hear the light pace of Villanelle’s breathing, the subtle stammer of her pulse. The stool creaked softly under the weight of them.

Villanelle leaned into Eve, her lips brushing by Eve’s neck, finding purchase right below Eve’s ear. 

“Would you like it to happen again?” she whispered, softly, breathily.

The stool didn’t stand a chance.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M A TEASE I KNOWWWW. but tension and cliffhangers make the heart grow fonder, or something.
> 
> an aside -- i had such bad writer's block this week? i have no idea why. words were just like not flowing right, you know?? ya feel me?? i felt like i had to reset my brain back to factory settings. probably just been doing way too much studying, it's impeding my much more crucial fanfic-ing abilities. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed this update! this is probably going to be my longest multi-chapter fic yet, i just have so much ground i want to cover with these fools.  
> thank you dearly for reading and commenting - your comments really have been so wonderful and motivating, i cherish every single one.


	10. Can we at least have spaghetti?

_“Did you enjoy it?”_

_“Yes.”_

  
  
  
  


Villanelle sighed. She was tired of doing these conversational dances. Don’t get her wrong―she loved small talk with Eve, adored the undercurrents and the sneers and in-jokes. But it was no fun if nothing was ever explicit. Eventually nods had to become words and words had to become _make out with me already_.

So: she rounded the coffee table and sat herself in Eve’s lap.

Villanelle’s hands were clammy as they traced the arch of Eve’s jaw. They trembled into the caress and she resented them for it. Traitorous digits. She cursed the nerves, the sweat, the shiver. She wasn’t supposed to get nervous. Eve was not meant to make her feel like this, so exposed, utterly naked. 

“Would you like it to happen again?” she whispered into Eve’s ear, and she hoped it sounded confident. Confidence was what she was, if nothing else. Villanelle projected ego personified, strong-armed personality in a slim-fit suit. 

Eve raised a steady hand to her back and pressed Villanelle into her. Villanelle inhaled sharply, shocked by the unexpected embrace. The tightness, the softness, the apprehensive tread of Eve’s fingers down the small of her back. The contact felt like a chemical reaction, Villanelle’s body melting into Eve’s on its own accord. Her nose nudged into Eve’s neck, the smell of her all-consuming. It was intoxicating, terrifying― _safe_. 

The stool made a splintering creak.

“I hope you know you’re paying for that,” Eve mumbled half-heartedly. Her voice was shaky, a feeble attempt at a punchline. 

Villanelle, for her part, was entirely speechless. All she could focus on was the delicate way Eve was pressing Villanelle into her, how their bodies fit like worn puzzle pieces. See, she had expected Eve to kiss her. Villanelle was prepared for a kiss―a kiss she could handle. She could pour her nerves into Eve’s lips, hope and pray that their bodies worked out the difference. 

This was not unwelcome, but Villanelle would have appreciated a warning.

“You know, Eve, I had meant to kiss you,” she mumbled, uncertain, into Eve’s neck.

Eve laughed.

“I know.”

“You do not want to kiss me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Mm, no, you didn’t. But this is not exactly kissing.”

When Eve did not immediately respond, Villanelle raised her hand to the back of Eve’s head. She moved her fingers carefully through her hair. It was soft and hard, crisp curls frenzied by wind. She loved the way it fit in between her fingers.

Mm. _Love._ Tough word. 

She felt a sudden loss as Eve released her, pushing Villanelle back so the two were staring straight again. Villanelle was struck by the shyness in Eve’s face.

“I know,” Eve shrugged, “I think I just wanted to…”

Eve tapered off, her gaze deflecting. Villanelle was rabid with curiosity.

“You wanted to...”

Eve sighed, finding Villanelle’s eyes again. She reached out and tucked a hair behind Villanelle’s ear, staring thoughtfully. It made Villanelle nostalgic for a touch she’d never had.

“I wanted to, I don’t know… hold you? That sounds so stupid, God―it was just an impulse.”

Villanelle pursed her lips. Her heart did a bit of a swaying motion. 

“I am not a baby. I do not need to be swaddled.”

Eve rolled her eyes.

“Not like _that_ , God. You’re not making this easy.”

“I never make anything easy,” Villanelle smirked, but the weight of Eve’s words sat heavy on her chest. She was so thoroughly unused to this type of genuinity, this foreign art of saying things you mean and meaning the things you say. It felt like sailing a boat with a blindfold, a knife pressed to her neck.

“Yeah, me neither,” Eve laughed lightly. 

Curiosity overtaking her, Villanelle slowly leaned back into Eve. She floated her arms over her back. It felt strange, orchestrating this kind of embrace. She usually left the hugging to other people, if she left it to anyone at all. Where the hell do people put their hands?

“Mm. Well this does not feel terrible,” Villanelle settled on clasping her hands behind Eve’s back. She could practically feel Eve’s amused smile.

“I mean, you are a bit bony,” Eve said.

Villanelle huffed and Eve only squeezed her tighter. Oh.

“I am not _bony_ ,” she said, ignoring the dreaded intimacy of it all, “that is entirely lean muscle you are currently feeling up.”

Eve scoffed, “I am not feeling up anything.” She traced her finger over Villanelle’s shoulder, soft and aimless. 

“Yes, well, I wish you were,” Villanelle teased, grin wide, because how could she not.

Okay, maybe she should have not―Villanelle quickly found herself being pushed off Eve’s lap, falling incredibly ungracefully to the floor.

“Hey!” she complained, annoyed mostly for the loss of Eve’s body against hers. It had been nauseatingly pleasant. Eve looked nothing more than amused.

“Get up,” Eve smirked, rising from the battered stool, “I’m old and hungry, and you interrupted my regularly-scheduled dinner time.”

Villanelle gaped as Eve walked off towards the kitchen. Villanelle was starting to think that being with Eve was less like badminton, and more like a never-ending game of bumper cars. 

“You’re not _old_.”

Eve said nothing. Villanelle pouted.

“If you’re not going to kiss me, can we at least have spaghetti?”

Eve snorted. Villanelle grinned at the sound.

  
  
  
  
  


Villanelle thoroughly enjoyed the way Eve held a knife. Her fingers curled around the handle with a quiet terror, careful as she cut through limp tomato skin. Her motions were languid, concentrated. She carried the utensil like Villanelle imagined she might wield a gun―with a certain deserved reverence.

“You really like knives, don’t you?”

Eve’s eyes flitted momentarily to the side. The assertion seemed to catch her off guard, a light flush evident on her cheeks.

“Sure, and I like forks and spoons too.”

Villanelle laughed, unconvinced. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and picked up a wooden spoon. The spaghetti was simmering in a pot, a low boil. She removed the top and dipped the spoon in, stirring it with an exaggerated delicacy.

“Eve,” she whined, “do you think it’s done yet?”

“It’s spaghetti, Villanelle. Not rocket science. Just taste it.”

Villanelle huffed.

“That’s not a fair comparison. Plus, who cares about space when you have _pasta_.”

She grinned like a child. Eve shook her head.

“Here,” Eve waved Villanelle’s hands away from the pot, sliding up next to her. Villanelle raised an eyebrow as their sides touched, Eve’s worn _Momma’s Kitchen_ apron colliding with the fuzzy material of Villanelle’s cashmere sweater. 

“Jeez, you’re hot.”

Eve stared at her, mouth agape. Villanelle touched Eve’s forehead, pressing her palm down.

“Like, burning hot,” Villanelle smirked, “do you need a water break?”

Eve rolled her eyes aggressively, shoving Villanelle’s hand away.

“How old are you again? Thirteen?”

“And a half,” Villanelle sing-songed. 

Eve ignored her and examined the pasta. She used the spoon to dig out a few choice noodles. 

“Here, taste it,” Eve shoved the spoon in front of Villanelle’s face. A few stray noodles hung unceremoniously from the utensil. 

“Should we do it like Lady and the Tramp?” Villanelle grinned suggestively, removing one of the noodles and dangling it near Eve’s face. 

“Does your worldview revolve entirely around Disney movies?”

“Of course not,” Villanelle denied, “Shrek is a Dreamworks film.”

“Oh my god,” Eve groaned, “you are unbelievable. Please just taste it before the pasta goes limp.”

“Fine. For the sake of the spaghetti,” Villanelle huffed, taking a noodle from the spoon and popping it in her mouth. Eve watched on with her typical intensity.

And it was typical, yes, but overwhelming even so―the ordeal of being searched so intently. If Eve had a notebook, Villanelle was certain she’d be taking down notes, ripping up paper, inscribing observations with the ferocity of Athena. Eve’s gaze tended to feel like that, like being pinned to the tip of a microscope. 

And here’s the odd thing: Villanelle had received a non-trivial amount of attention in her life. She wore shark teeth for earrings, laughed at roadkill, drove obnoxiously fancy cars. It was only natural she commanded a certain fascination from passersby. But so rarely was the fascination mutual, this feral desire to _know_ . Never had someone so transfixing looked at her like _that_ ―with Eve’s flagrant devotion. That type of gaze from that type of woman?

It made Villanelle’s skin feel like hot coals.

“Is it bad?” Eve frowned, “shit. I overcooked it.”

“No,” Villanelle swallowed, licking her lips, “not overcooked.”

“You can tell me if it’s bad,” Eve laughed, trying to dampen the sudden tension, “I promise I’ll recover.”

“I don’t know if I will,” Villanelle breathed out. 

_Shit._

“What?”

“I don’t know if I will recover,” she repeated, matter-of fact.

Eve stilled. She gave Villanelle an apprehensive look.

“From the… overcooked pasta? Look, I have like ten more bags where that came from. This house is basically a carbohydrate carnival―”

“Eve,” Villanelle said weakly, “I am trying to… say something.”

Eve froze.

“Oh?”

Eve bit her lip and laid down the wooden spoon on the counter. It wobbled back and forth, unsteady. Noodles swam from its sides to the countertop. 

Villanelle swallowed again. She felt the spaghetti slide down her throat, hot and too-soft. The claminess had returned to her hands and claimed her throat; the nerves had overrun her body, ran slick in her veins. She wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like, emotional motion sickness.

“I have not done this before,” she managed. 

Eve looked at her quizzically. 

“Make pasta?”

Villanelle groaned. This woman was as dense as she was transparent.

“No, Eve,” she sighed, then gestured dramatically to the space between them, “ _this_.”

“Ah,” Eve smirked, voice whole with amusement, “cook.”

“Oh my god―”

Eve’s mouth closed over her words, the smaller woman leaning up to press her hand to the back of Villanalle’s skull. It was short, a quip of a kiss, Eve’s nails digging through Villanelle’s hair. Villanelle shivered, couldn’t help it. She was doomed.

“I get it,” Eve whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of Villanelle’s mouth.

“I want to keep you around,” Villanelle confessed. The words fell from her lips with an urgency. 

Eve paused for a moment, caught in the aftershock. She stared at Villanelle’s face, examining, always examining. After finding what she must have been looking for, she turned towards the pasta and stirred. And then she laughed. Properly laughed, shaking her head as she stared at the volcanic pasta water. Villanelle frowned.

“I am not being funny.”

“You are _always_ being funny.”

“Not this time.”

Eve turned off the burner and wrung her hands on a dishtowel. 

“Did you know I used to have a husband?” Eve asked, busying herself with dishes. 

Villanelle’s frown deepened. This was the last thing in the world that she was concerned with. Eve could have been a wanted killer up until last Thursday and she would have dismissed it with a hand wave.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Villanelle shrugged.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to respond to that,” Eve laughed, “but… thank you. It was miserable.”

“Mm. I am sure he was an areshole.”

“Oh, he wasn’t, not at all,” Eve laughed again, a bit manic, “I was.”

Villanelle mulled this over. She felt as if she was being tested. But then again, everything with Eve was a test. Multiple choice. Long answer. Every conversation was just another shuffle of the deck.

“That does not surprise me either,” Villanelle settled on. They were dealing in truths, weren’t they?

This seemed to be the right choice―or a choice, anyhow. Eve looked back at her, expression unreadable.

“The last time I saw him, I threw a chair straight at a mirror. The glass shattered, went everywhere, nearly took both our eyes out,” Eve said seriously, “then I stole our joint car and drove straight to Albuquerque. I left everything in that house. Everything―pictures of my Mom, our wedding day, anniversaries. He called me everyday for a week. I never picked up. Sent the divorce papers in the mail. I haven’t even checked Facebook to see how he’s doing.”

Eve turned to the stove, unable to keep eye contact. 

“I am a terrible girlfriend,” she finished, stirring the pasta sauce.

Now it was Villanelle’s turn to laugh. 

“Very good speech,” she grinned, and Eve balked at her. 

“I’m serious, Villanelle.”

“Yes, and so was I. And I doubt you are a terrible girlfriend. You were just a terrible wife.”

This seemed to awaken a part of Eve that had fallen dormant in the midst of her self-inflicted guilt trip. Her gaze perked up, her swirling hand stilling on the side of the pot.

“If that is the worst disclaimer you have to give me, you definitely do not want to hear mine,” Villanelle laughed, approaching Eve languidly. She came to a stop just centimeters away, stretching her arm over Eve’s to turn off the burner. She could hear Eve’s shallow breathing from beneath her; watched her pupils dilate.

Villanelle leaned in, lips barely an inch from the shell of Eve’s ear.

“I have made over twenty thousand dollars scamming moms on Facebook Marketplace,” she whispered. 

Eve slapped her hard on the arm, pushing her away in a fitful attempt not to laugh.

“I actually hate you, oh my god. Is that true?”

“Will you still want me if it is?”

Villanelle’s smile was sheepish. Even so, Eve―forever the detective―could spot the fear in it. The double-edged sword of sincerity.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Villanelle beamed. Eve dipped a spoon in the pasta sauce. 

“It’s ready,” she said softly, “can you set the table?”

  
  
  
  
  


“God, this is delicious,” Villanelle groaned. She shoveled another heap of pasta into her mouth. Eve stared on with amusement, her own plate barely touched. Villanelle eyed it suspiciously.

“You’re not eating.”

Eve’s eyebrows raised. She looked down at her plate as if she was surprised at the state of it.

“Oh,” she said, “I guess I’m not that hungry.”

“Weren’t you the one who gave a whole speech about having a regularly scheduled dinner time?”

“Can’t recall.”

“Bullshit,” Villanelle grinned, licking the side of her mouth. 

Eve shrugged. “You’re covered in sauce again.”

“No I’m not,” Villanelle rolled her eyes. She most definitely was. She searched her immediate vicinity for a napkin to no avail. Aha, the trickster―Eve had the singular available sheet of paper trapped under her knife.

“Let me borrow that,” she pointed, “if I am so full of sauce.”

“Nah,” Eve smiled, “I like you like this.”

Villanelle felt her chest tighten. Eve’s gaze had softened over the hours, steely and studious turned to a warm glaze. The change rocked Villanelle’s lifeboat, the poor wooden thing a shamble of strewn apart nails and planks. She had just become comfortable being dissected. This softness was another trial entirely.

Ever the deflector, Villanelle sneered, “You like me saucy?”

In place of a reply, Eve took the napkin from her place setting and leaned over to dab the sauce at the sides of Villanelle’s mouth. She did it carefully, gently, staring intently at her lips. Villanelle felt that feeling again―the void, the sensation of a hole being patched up with duct-tape.

“Relaxed,” Eve explained, sitting back down, “I like you when you’re relaxed.”

“I am always relaxed,” Villanelle laughed, her traitorous leg bobbing up and down under the table. She receded further into her seat as if to make a point, lying nearly horizontal. She would show Eve relaxed.

“See, Eve? Very relaxed. I am basically asleep.”

“Very convincing. Now sit up, you’re not allowed to break anymore of my furniture.”

Villanelle straightened her back, “so bossy.”

“I think you like that about me, though.”

Villanelle swallowed. She would have to amend her analogy once more. This was not badminton or bumper cars. There was no suitable metaphor to box Eve into. She’d claw her way out of any expectation with hands and teeth. _This_ , Villanelle realized, was the true disclaimer. It was not that Eve was a _bad girlfriend_. She probably was not even a terrible wife. No, the simple fact of it was that Eve was incredibly, innately resistant to being one thing. To trap her into a label, a box, a lifestyle―that was the first fatal mistake.

“Why did you leave your husband?” Villanelle interjected.

Eve’s eyebrows creased. She took a second to respond, twirling her fork mindlessly through her pasta.

“I wasn’t happy,” she supplied, but it did not seem sufficient.

“And why weren’t you happy?”

“Well… I… It sounds bad.”

“I am positive it doesn’t.”

Eve smiled softly at her. They were the same in this way―conventional morality was a size too small. It fit awkwardly around the waist, gripped too tightly at the neckline.

“I was bored,” Eve admitted, “look―he was nice. Really nice. Sweet, too. He always bought me flowers, remembered my birthday. He was good with my mom. I mean, the whole package, right? And It was fine at first. Everyone told me that I should have been beyond satisfied. Everyone was always saying _you snagged a good one_. You know? But there was always this void.”

Villanelle nodded along. She recognized the sentiment immediately. The void. The feeling of not enough, not enough, never enough.

“You are not a bad person for wanting more, Eve.”

Eve’s hand rose to her chest, her posture stiffening. She looked at Villanelle as if she had just confirmed something deep from within her, a swirling question struck dead by a simple answer.

“I think I resented you at first. For all the freedom you have.”

Villanelle tapped anxiously at the table.

“And now?”

“I think I want to sell my store.”

Villanelle smiled at this.

“But I don’t think I can.”

Villanelle frowned. The clarity had been momentary, but at least it had existed.

“Why not?”

“It was my dad’s. He left it to me. I’d just feel… wrong, giving it away like that. That store was his dream, his life’s work.”

“ _His_ dream, Eve. Not yours,” Villanelle argued.

“Yeah, well, sometimes you inherit things.”

“Oh, Eve. If I was so concerned about what I inherited, I would probably be rotting away in a tiny jailhouse outside Moscow right now. Do you think that would be a good idea?”

“Maybe,” Eve smirked, “a few stay at home moms would be twenty thousand dollars richer.”

Villanelle scoffed, “and who would that help? I can guarantee you I am putting their money to better use than they are.”

Eve laughed, a relieved sort of chuckle. They stared at each other for a moment in comfortable silence, the heavy tides of conversation sweeping over, rolling gently back in. It reminded Villanelle of when they first sat across each other at Frank’s. 

Eve got up and picked up her dish. She leaned over the table and grabbed Villanelle’s as well, the plate now completely speckless, completely devoured. She walked the silverware over to the kitchen and dropped them carelessly in the sink.

She turned to face Villanelle, licked her lips. 

“Wanna go upstairs?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the delay on this, life said nOOPE! but i'm back now, and i'm also on twitter, if you're interested in following my ridiculous writing process & dumb hot takes: @villhag
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this one! things are HEATING UP BABYYYY


	11. Inertia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fic is starting to earn its ~mature~ rating, so, like, yeah

Humans are obsessed with space; with stars and suns, carbon and atoms and astrology. Look, Eve doesn’t blame them, not entirely. She gets it. The universe beyond has an undeniable grandiosity, a giant, incomprehensible size that naturally inspires fear and fascination. It’s big and vast and unknown. But so is the sea, so is the mind, so is Antarctica.

It’s just, to Eve, Galileo Galilei alerted human consciousness to a topic far more terrifying than balls of carbon in his time. 

He introduced the concept of inertia.

The idea that an object, undisturbed, will stay that way for an eternity―unquestioning, unmoving, unbothered. That the only thing capable of moving it, of changing the entire course of its small, undignified life, is a singular force.

That’s it. 

One _singular_ thing.

Without that intrusion―that impassive gust of wind―you could quite literally live your whole life like a lamppost. You wouldn’t even know it. Here lies so-and-so, they blinked and so was life. 

  
  
  
  


They barely made it up the stairs.

The trek to Eve’s room was short, but Villanelle’s hands were impatient; their bodies pushed gentle and hard along wallpapered walls, scraped up against hallway furniture. Eve yelped as her spine collided with a doorknob, the pain absolutely divine. 

“Shit,” Villanelle’s hands rested on the door behind them, thumbs framing each side of Eve’s head. Eve registered the immediate concern in her eyes, blown-out pupils hazily attempting to concentrate, “did I hurt you?”

Eve shook her head fervently. _Yes. No. Do it again_ ―she leaned in once more, knocking Villanelle’s nose and gripping tightly at her collar. She was growing addicted to the way Villanelle’s mouth felt against hers, the heavenly softness, the moisture, the unending neediness of her hands, her lips, her body. _Shit. Shit._

Eve was starting to suspect this wanting might be terminal. 

“God, come _here _.”__

Eve yanked them through the doorway. Didn’t even pause to check the state of things―clutter patterned the floor, clothes and doo-dads and auction rejects. She couldn’t care less, couldn’t care at all, didn’t even notice; she was singularly focused on searing a mark to Villanelle’s collarbone, memorizing each melodic syllable of the moan it elicited. She thanked the heavens above her bedroom was more a closet than a room, a one-two walk from the door to the sheets; they fell on the bed with an indelicate _thunk_ , white linens pressed beneath panting bodies.

It’s their position that finally gave Eve pause―Villanelle, straddling her again. Toppling her. Predator over prey, a chokehold of an embrace. But it was anything but: when Eve stopped, Villanelle stopped. When Eve’s hands found purchase on Villanelle’s jaw, it was Villanelle who was crumbling, eyes shut tight, throat bobbing. When Eve stroked her hand upwards, slowly, _always slowly_ , to find the shell of Villanelle’s ear, it was Villanelle who could barely bear the weight of it.

" _Eve_ ,” it was a whine, throaty and obvious. Because Villanelle was so _obvious _. She was other things too, but mostly this―utterly on display, constantly performing. Putting on a show without having to act.__

“Christ. You are so―” Eve exhaled, and it clicked, like a switch. Because, yes, Eve liked Villanelle. She wasn’t that dense to her own desire; she liked the way she drove dumb, audacious cars, the way she was blunt without being rude, the way she dabbled in morals like one might dabble in tap dance. She liked her and she envied her, despised her and wanted her. But all of these individual, feeble adorations, they had a name, a culmination―

Inertia. _Love _. Inertia. Eve was moving; Eve was on her way.__

“I am _so_ ,” Villanelle mimicked, as she loved to do, and dipped into Eve again.

They existed like this for several minutes, Villanelle kissing Eve's mouth, then the sides of it, then down her neck, languid and studious. Because this is what Eve had come to realize: Villanelle was _learning_ her; this entire time. Sizing her up. Memorizing her shape, physical and otherwise. It had been this way from the beginning― _Eve watched her, she watched Eve, Eve watched her._ Give and take, but do neither. She huffed as Eve swatted her hands away, whined as Eve found her scalp, tred impatient fingers through her hair.

Eventually, they came up to breathe. Eve broke the kiss slowly, found Villanelle’s eyes brimming with ecstasy, boiling over. She wondered if things were changing for her, too, behind those eyes―if tectonic plates always shifted in two directions.

And because Eve was Eve, her mouth fell open: “What happens after this?”

Villanelle, for her part, did not seem bothered by Eve’s abruptness. She had become used to it, probably, accustomed to her habit of stabbing incessentantly at ambiguity until truths were expelled.

“An orgasm, hopefully,” Villanelle smirked, and Eve blushed. God help her―even in this position, even with the age between them, _even, even, even_ ―the statement still fell hot on Eve’s middle, burned her straight through.

“God, not that―” _Maybe that_ , “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Villanelle bit her lip. Looked at Eve and smiled; it was soft, overly so. So soft and delicate that Eve nearly wanted to shatter it. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t even dream to―she was too foregone. They had come too far, were much too entwined, practically a walking blood pact. That was the balancing act they maintained, the reason they worked, if they worked at all―they were a constant exchange, a quid pro quo of _don’t break my heart, I won’t break yours _.__

“What happens, after, you know―”

“After what?”

Eve sat up, stared Villanelle head on, “When does this end?” 

And there it was―hammer meet nail. 

“End?” Villanelle pulled back, squinted.

“Yes.”

“Well, I imagine we’ll eventually get tired. I _am_ good, but, well―I do need rest periods. Are you asking for a timeline?”

Eve balked, jaw slack. And Villanelle had the audacity to consider _her_ dense.

“Villanelle, not _this_ ,” Eve gestured to the bed, as if that was some kind of indicator, and oh God, they were ridiculous, weren’t they? Completely, utterly, “like, the whole thing. Whatever you want to call it. Me. You. The house. The decorating. The talking. The… kissing.”

Of course, Villanelle had understood the question all along. She was just doing what she did best―conversational dances, a devious ballet. Villanelle was a verb, she was _do _. Eve was think, think, process. Act only when the grave had been dug, when she could quietly shuffle herself into it.__

But then: “Never,” Villanelle said, shrugging.

Eve’s gut twisted, pulsated, nearly ruptured, " _never?_ What do you mean, never?”

“Exactly what that means―never. No end. _This_ ,” Villanelle repeated Eve’s gesture back to her, “does not need to stop. And, more importantly, I do not want it to.”

_Want _. Eve felt acid pool in her throat. There was that word again. Villanelle _wanted _. What a foreign concept, to have a need, to go as far as to satiate it.____

“Eve,” Villanelle’s hand pressed into Eve’s thigh, nails digging in, “you do not need to stay here, in this town. In Albuquerque.”

 _Albuquerque_ ―from Villanelle’s lips, the name felt so distant. Like the kind of place you fly over, a mere dot on a shitty inflight tv screen. “Four hundred feet above Albuquerque,” _Al bu quer que _.__ The name should have felt like home. God―it should have at least felt like something. But it didn’t. It was void, it was chasm, it was just another thing sitting absently next to everything else. Her house was here. Her friends were here. Her store was here. Her dad was here, _was_.

Eve frowned, “who said I wanted to leave?”

Villanelle frowned back. 

“What is it that you want, then, Eve?”

“I don’t know.” _Nothing. Everything. You. Nothing. Everything _.__

Villanelle sighed, studied the bedsheets.

“You know, I am not good at _this_ either. Feelings. Having them,” she muttered, drawing circles in Eve’s thigh, pressing, pressing. Eve wished she’d dig deeper, draw blood―”I have never stayed so long, Eve. So still. In one place. I do not wait. I am not patient.”

“So why haven’t you left? I never asked you to stay.”

Villanelle’s hand ceased, balled into a limp fist. _Be angry_ , Eve thought, _be mad _. Her thoughts turned to Niko, to the way she never could explain to him what it meant to be her. Could never convey it, not properly, not thoroughly.__

But Villanelle did not turn mad, or cold. No: she shrugged, laughed, rolled her eyes.

“Well, I did have a job to do.”

“And now it’s done.”

“Now it’s done.”

Again, silence. Again, Villanelle’s anxious fingers swirling over her skin. Eve swore they were trembling, fireflies trapped below skin.

Villanelle blew out a breath, her voice mumbled, “I want you to come with me.”

 _Oh._ Eve stared. The anxiety shot up like bile. 

(Go _with_ her, like another antique thrown in the back of Villanelle’s car. Like a possession. Another trophy to be carried about.)

“Go with you? Why?”

“Why do I need to have a reason? Because I want you, Eve,” Villanelle’s features were straining now, pained. It hurt Eve to watch, dug into her like a knife. Villanelle was trying―Villanelle was trying for _her _. And yet.__

“Which is it, Villanelle? Do you want _me,_ or do you just want?”

That one dug, so much was obvious. The softness in Villanelle’s features had dulled to apathy. A predictable outcome―this is what Eve did; she ruined. She unveiled the curtain, watched the play, and then shot aimlessly in the dark. 

Still, Villanelle had not moved. She sat there, frozen, uncharacteristically solid. 

“Eve,” she said quietly, lips a thin line, “you do not care.”

“What?"

Suddenly, Villanelle was incredibly close again; pressed into her, sliding her thigh between Eve’s. And _oh _.__

She kissed her neck, grazed her teeth on the surface.

“You,” Villanelle punctuated, teeth biting in, leaving a bruise, “Don’t. Care.”

“I―” Eve could barely breathe, and maybe that was the point, maybe that was the plan.

“Mm. You don’t care because it is not about me. It is about _you_ ,” her mouth pressed slowly over Eve’s collarbone, tongue swiping over, and _fuck_ ―“you think you are trapped. You think that you are a _thing,_ that you are _owned_ ―by this place, by your past, by some silly allegiance to an antique store. _Eve _.__ Open your eyes, _Eve_. _ _”__

She hadn’t realized they were closed until they weren’t. And _oh_ , Villanelle was staring at her, lips swollen, hungry and _happy_ ―and how annoying of her, how completely rude. To be so happy when Eve was so miserable.

“That’s not true,” she argued, but it was a moan, and it was a lie. Villanelle laughed into her chest, kissed past her collarbones, lips pressing to the side of her breast. Dug her knee further into Eve’s core. _Fuck_ ―Eve saw the sun.

“Yes. Yes it is,” Villanelle pulled at the hem of Eve’s shirt and Eve let her. She tore it off of Eve’s chest and Eve let her. She kissed Eve’s cheek, slow, like a lover, like Aphrodite, smiling against it―and Eve let her, “but you’ll come around, I think.”

" _God,_ fine, yes,” Eve dragged Villanelle back up to her, crashing their lips together because why not, because nothing mattered, and she was fucked, and this was fucked, and oh―the tectonic plates were moving again―inertia, inertia, inertia―”you’re right. You’re _right _. Just fuck me already.”  
  
  
  
__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI LISTEN I KNOW THIS WAS SHORT BUT it was sexy so forgive me? also if you want to hear me mutter about my (dumb) writing process feel free to follow me on the tweet app at @villhag


	12. Futures

The morning is always a reckoning.

Eve could never quite place why. Maybe it was the light, foremost, so bright and relentless. The way it streamed in so innocently through drapes, only to strip and expose you, display you whole―skin, guts, blood―without permission. Not a light switch but a _lighter_ , nothing, then click: fire and carnage. 

Eve stared at Villanelle’s bare back and ached. She hovered her hand over it and her fingers trembled, the shadow of them dancing across undressed skin. She moved her hand upwards, followed that shadow up Villanelle’s spine, well past her shoulder blades and finally around to the nape of her neck. She could see her pulse fluttering there, soft, steady, acutely vulnerable. Eve’s chest felt tight.

See, mornings never waited for _yes_ and _please_ and _I’m ready now_. They simply laid open.

“Morning, Eve.”

Eve rescinded her hand immediately, jumping at Villanelle’s barely audible mumble. Her lips were still pressed firmly into Eve’s pillow, eyes shut tight. The only feature that gave her away was her mouth, lips stretched into a small smirk.

“Right,” Eve uttered, failing to summon a better greeting. Villanelle’s words echoed around her skull, playing over and over, a messy tape recording― _Morning, Eve_ ―because, yes, it was morning―Villanelle had just woken up. Villanelle had just woken up in Eve’s bed. Her bed.

Because they had slept together.

Right, yes, exactly.

Christ. She needed a―

“Do you want a coffee?”

This properly stirred Villanelle, her smile downturning.

“So eager,” her voice was still hoarse, quiet, “no coffee. Stay.”

Villanelle’s arms wrapped around Eve’s middle, tugging her back down into the sheets. 

“You won’t like me without my coffee,” Eve warned. Warmth sprouted like vines from her center, spread like wildfire from Villanelle’s coiling fingers. It was so intimate―the proximity. Suffocating. 

“Oh, I think I will,” Villanelle grinned into Eve’s skin, her lips pressing into Eve’s back. She kept her mouth there, nearly motionless, lips moving unhurriedly down her spine. 

God. It was unpleasantly soothing. 

How very _Eve_ this whole situation was―for the root of her dread to also be the remedy.

Nonetheless, the sun was too harsh, and the reality was too _dawning_ , Villanelle sitting there like that, so feverishly close. She needed a quick exit. A moment to breathe before the hailstorm.

Eve rose from the bed, shrugging on a discarded shirt, “How do you like yours?”

Villanelle groaned, long and pointed. Eve could feel the annoyance wafting off of her. She couldn’t help but grin.

“I do not want coffee. Come back to bed,” she pulled the covers over herself, cocooning into the sheets, “come on, Eve, I am _cold_.”

Eve ignored her, slipping on her pants, “So, black, then?”

“Black?” Villanelle emphasized, dramatically wounded―because _of course_ the only sure-fire way to persuade her of anything was to offend her sensibilities―“I am not a cave troll, Eve. I take it with half and half. Half a carton.”

“Half a carton of creamer?” Eve balked, finally turning back around, “That’s… disgusting?”

“Disgusting? It is refreshing, Eve,” Villanelle rolled her eyes and decided, abruptly, that she had lost this fight. She pulled the sheets off herself and jumped robotically out of the bed, one limb after another; it was one of the most ridiculous things Eve had ever seen, so critically Villanelle―especially since she was _completely naked_.

 _Fuck._ Anyway.

“Yeah, err, whatever,” Eve fumbled, averting her gaze. Villanelle was naked. Villanelle was naked _because they slept together_. 

Christ―she was nearly forty, why was this a big deal? People slept together, so what. So what if she hadn’t slept with anyone else in nearly four years? So what if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind until she met Villanelle? So what if they also happened to be stupid _business partners_ and maybe _friends_ and maybe Eve really, maybe, surely, _enjoyed_ her stupid company. And her jokes. And her crooked smile. The scar on her upper lip. And―

“Eve,” Villanelle, suddenly before her, snapped her fingers in front of her face, “where did you go?”

Eve blinked, eyes strolling from Villanelle’s face to her bare chest, and back to her face. 

“Can you, God―can you put on some clothes?”

Villanelle smirked.

“Um… no. I seem to have lost them.”

Eve shook her head. To Villanelle’s credit, a cursory glance revealed that they were nowhere in the immediate area. Most likely stuffed between the sheets, somewhere in the disarray of the very… _used_ bed. Eve opted to rifle through her drawers instead, grabbing a t-shirt and throwing it at her.

Villanelle grunted, the shirt hitting her square in the face.

“You are so testy in the morning,” she complained, but it was with a grin. She examined the shirt―it was blue, with a deteriorating _Connecticut Tigers_ logo plastered on, front and center.

“Go Tigers, hmm?” Villanelle grinned, pulling the shirt on eagerly. Eve instantly regretted not checking the print beforehand, “my kind of team. Although, maybe _cougars_ would be more fitting.”

With that single comment, Eve’s anxiety evaporated. She leveled Villanelle with a stare.

“You’re such an idiot,” she grumbled, tossing her a pair of bottoms. Her ugliest pair of sweatpants, to make a point of it.

Villanelle looked at them in horror.

“These pants are frighteningly bad, Eve.”

“Yeah, well, live with it,” Eve smiled, patting Villanelle on the shoulder and turning on her heel.

“Where are you going? I am not wearing this.”

“You’ll manage!” Eve shouted, already halfway down the stairs.

“I will not!” Villanelle yelled back, but Eve could no longer hear her, the overpowering sounds of the coffee grinder whipping and grating. She stared at the fine grains spilling out the bottom, piling up in a circular funnel. How quick the process was―from beans to grounds: to things with a shape, sturdy and stubborn, to things without. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Two cups of coffee and half a carton of creamer later, the pair of them sat, quiet, satiated, on Eve’s couch. Villanelle, after _many_ complaints, was dressed considerably better in one of Eve’s finer pairs of jeans, the _Tigers_ top still strung obnoxiously along her chest. 

“So, we had coffee,” Villanelle commented, ever-eager to wedge Eve into another uncomfortable conversation. Eve tensed.

“Technically I’m still having coffee,” Eve corrected, sipping slowly at her mug. Villanelle rolled her eyes, tugging the mug out of her hands. Eve tried to protest, but Villanelle was quick, downing the rest with a gulp.

“Oh, dear _god_ , that is bad,” Villanelle grimaced, wiping her mouth, “very bad. You must have no taste buds at all.”

“If anyone has none, it’s _you_. All that sugar. No wonder you’re basically vibrating all the time.”

Villanelle smirked, mouthing “ _vibrating?_ ” and Eve shook her head preemptively; still, Villanelle remained silent, not pushing the comment further. She simply stared at Eve’s face, inspecting it.

After a beat, she said softly, “You are so beautiful in the morning, Eve.”

Eve wished desperately she had taken her drink decaf.

“I―what?” she blubbered, nerves and caffeine catching her tongue in a chokehold. Villanelle’s gaze was heavy, direct, pinning her to the sofa cushion. They had slept together, full on _had sex_ , and Eve still acutely felt the small space between them, the places where their ankles touched; the couch too small to allow for a respite.

“I am not used to seeing you nervous,” Villanelle touched Eve’s wrist, cupping it with her fingers. She placed two over Eve’s storming pulse, all doctorly. _Thump. Thump._ Villanelle grinned.

“I’m not nervous,” Eve muttered, hoping her tone would save her from the red highlighting her cheeks, the uninhibited pulse throbbing underneath hot skin. Unfortunately, it did not save her, could never have hoped to―not when Villanelle’s mere presence was holding her captive, a jail cell she had walked into willingly, drawn by the light like a fly to a furnace.

“Right.”

Villanelle’s hands progressed further up her arm, towards her neck and finally rounding her cheek. She pulled Eve towards her, pressed their lips together before Eve could think to stop it, before she could think to react. Before she saw blue and red and _forever_ ―whatever color that may be, the color of the universe, at its wits end, a black hole, at its very center.

Maybe the metaphor was wrong entirely; not a jail cell, but a vortex. Dizzying, nauseating―

“You _taste_ good in the morning, too,” Villanelle mumbled against her lips, “minus the coffee.”

Fuck it. No metaphors―

“ _God_ , I like you,” Eve whispered.

Villanelle’s lips stilled against hers, and Eve felt her stomach drop, drop, drop. _Shit._ A moment passed before Eve felt Villanelle’s lips turn, spread into a wide smile against her mouth.

“You _like_ me?” she said, all bravado.

Eve pulled away.

“I―” she pinched her nose, her brain stuttering― _thank you caffeine_ ―“that came out wrong.”

“Right. So you don’t like me.”

“No, that’s not―”

“Or you _really_ like me,” Villanelle grinned, stressing the syllables, “like, a lot. More than a lot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I think you’d suffer me, though,” Villanelle smiled, confidence melting into something sweet, soft. Patient. She ran her hand down Eve’s arm, settled it on her thigh, drawing circles.

Before Eve could open her mouth to speak―and then regret it, undoubtedly―Villanelle’s phone cried out, an instrumental cover of Toxic by Brittany Spears blaring like an orchestra from the countertop. 

“Konstantin. I will _kill_ him,” Villanelle gritted, sitting through five, six, seven murderous seconds before groaning, stalking off the couch, and picking up the phone.

“Hi Konstantin,” Villanelle sing-songed, “my mother better be dead, or else this phone call is going to be the end of you instead, hmm?”

“For the last time, I do not know where your mother is. I am not a _spy_ ,” the eye-roll radiated through the phone, “but this is just as critical. Carolyn is at the house. She said she would like to talk with you at once. This could be bad, very bad. Bad for business.”

Eve watched on from the couch as she saw Villanelle freeze. That could not be good.

“Did she say… what about?” Villanelle replied, cringing. 

“No. Which is often code for _bad_.”

“Or, instead, just maybe _,_ we did very good? So good that she is speechless?”

Konstantin sighed, “Carolyn? Speechless? You will come now. I will see you in thirty minutes.”

“Okay, so, about that,” Villanelle turned to Eve, pouting, “I am busy.”

Eve squinted at her, waving her arms around to try and get some sort of elaboration on the conversation at hand. Villanelle motioned something indecipherable with her hands. God―it was a very good thing neither of them were spies. They would be very bad at it. Dead in a matter of days.

(Plus, _eBay scammer_ really did fit Villanelle like a glove. It was practically impossible to picture her in a different profession.)

“Villanelle,” Konstantin’s voice hardened, “do you want your paycheck for this house, or not? Do not forget, you still owe me.”

Villanelle stared at Eve, squinting, lip bitten in frustration. Eve wished more than anything to be privy to the decision she was weighing. Villanelle’s eyes wandered from her face down to her chest, straying too long on the v-neck. 

On second thought, maybe she didn’t want to know. Christ.

“Fine, fine. But you are ruining my very nice morning. You will have to live with that.”

Konstantin laughed, bitter, “I think I will survive.”

With a roll of her eyes, Villanelle hung up and shoved the phone in the pocket of her (Eve’s) jeans.

“So… bad news. I am being _summoned_ ,” Villanelle made her way back to the couch, flopping on it with all of the dramatics of a high school prom queen, “apparently Carolyn wants to have a little chat about our work. And it cannot wait. Because she is _so important_ , or whatever.”

Grateful for something to distract her from blundering her way through another major relationship discussion, Eve laughed.

“I told you she wouldn’t like the handcuffs.”

“No chance,” Villanelle frowned, “it must have been something else. Maybe the wallpaper was too tacky.”

“Impossible. I picked the wallpaper.”

Villanelle smirked, swatting at Eve’s hand before taking it in her own.

“Right. Because you are never wrong.”

“Oh, I’m wrong all the time,” Eve said, licking her lips, “just not about wallpaper.”

Villanelle grinned dumbly at her, and Eve couldn’t help but grin back. It reminded her, as things often did, of their first conversation. Face to face over the countertop. Villanelle insulting her _stool_. Eve defending it fervently, for God knows what reason. She had been so desperate back then to prove something to Villanelle―prove her worth, prove her expertise, her value. 

“No, never about wallpaper,” Villanelle conceded, pushing a thread of hair behind Eve’s ear.

Eve closed her eyes and sighed into the touch. Something within her wobbled, nearly collapsed;

For so long, she had been running on the pure adrenaline of _proving_ ; proving she could leave her husband. Proving she could take care of her father. Proving she could run his store. Proving she could survive, or at least _endure_ , the grief of his passing.

But what else was there to prove now? That she had lived so that she could die?

“What are you thinking about?” Villanelle whispered, stroking her thumb over the shell of Eve’s ear. 

Staring into Villanelle’s eyes, she felt a quiet ending. Not a safe harbor, no―but a challenge of a different kind.

“Way too many things,” Eve laughed lightly, “you don’t even want to know.” 

“Eve,” Villanelle laughed, dark and hoarse, “I want to know everything.”

Villanelle blinked at her. Eve swallowed.

“Trust me. You don’t. My mind―it’s like a rabbit hole with spikes at the end.”

Villanelle laughed, “Spikes? _Please_ , Eve. You insult me. If you are going to pick a scary metaphor, at least make an attempt. Try some lava, maybe. A moat.”

Eve folded her arms, “what? You’re too cool for spikes?”

“I could run on spikes,” Villanelle huffed, “You forget I was nearly beheaded in small-town Russia.”

“God,” Eve shook her head.

After gloating for a moment, Villanelle stiffened, turned solemn.

“I was serious last night, you know.”

Eve looked at her hands, studied them. Refused to let her mind flood with images of last night: legs, arms, hands and fingers, curled and splayed.

“About which part?”

Eve could sense a new emotion crossing Villanelle’s face. A genuine trepidation.

“The orgasms, obviously,” she laughed, oddly nervous.

Eve grew red, felt the memory unwittingly clawing at her, grazing into her core, into the pit of her stomach. She felt the memory physically, viscerally: the insides of her thighs were sore, her tendons stretched and exasperated. Her fingers instinctively ran across the length of her neck, treading the light bruises that discolored it. _Fuck_. “can’t you ever just be serious?” 

“Of course I can,” Villanelle defended, an eyebrow raising at Eve’s wandering hand. Eve dropped it back into her lap.

“So?” Eve pressed on, “what were you so serious about?”

“So…” Villanelle’s mouth stretched into a long _o_ , waiting, but going nowhere, “I just… What I said about… things ending. Or, not ending. Between us.”

Eve bit her lip, recognition washing over her. Right. What came _before_ the sex. Not that it was simply a _before_ ―Villanelle’s fingers said as much during, their rhythm, their motion, the way she worshipped Eve’s form from ankle to forehead. The asking was continual, every sound, every small question― _can I touch you here? Can I kiss you now? Does that feel good? How good?_ ―

Eve didn’t need words to get her answer. Villanelle’s intentions had been clear from the beginning. Written on her face, etched in her delicate features.

_“I want you to help me with a client.”_

Then―

_“But I am other things, too. If you would like to know them.”_

She had been asking―in words, in imperceptible touches―relentless, for months. Worming into Eve’s skull like a mite, a smirking parasite. Eve had simply been too ignorant to see it for what it was, the vulnerability masked.

“I recall,” Eve hummed, staring.

“Well, I said what I needed to say. About that,” Villanelle shrugged, making a show of checking her watch, “so if _you_ have nothing else to say, I guess I’ll just get going…”

“Wait,” Eve grabbed Villanelle’s arm; she hadn’t even moved yet, it was just a desperate impulse, “I do have things to say. Christ. I’m an idiot. I just…”

Villanelle smiled at her, too kind. Too patient. Too _knowing_. The blade between them was shrinking, nearly gone. The edge just sharp enough to still cut. To make a dent in either direction.

“I am not a beggar, Eve. I will not ask you to leave twice.”

She got off the couch, brushed away the wrinkles eating at her shirt.

“And, really, to be clear,” Villanelle cleared her throat, stared Eve into speechlessness, “I am not asking you to leave. Or to be with me, really, although I _would_ enjoy that, clearly…”

She wandered towards the door, Eve's gaze trailing her every step, feeling nearly like a ghost. Like she had been doomed to watch, await, her eyes forever stuck to the rearview mirror―

“All I am asking is that _you_ choose what your future looks like, hm?” Villanelle shrugged, smiling, “and I will do the same.”

The door shut with a finality. Eve nodded towards nothing. She felt chains unfurl.

After a few minutes, she rose from her chair. Cleaned the coffee beans off the countertop. Clipped the bag and shoved it back in the cabinets. Filled the sink with water, stared into the watery depths and _thought, thought, thought_ ―pictured her future in its reflection.

  
  
  
  
  


“Villanelle,” Carolyn greeted her brusquely, waving her in through the giant doorway, “have a seat.”

As was typical, Carolyn forwent small talk. Villanelle did not mind. Her mind was preoccupied. Unlike the many meetings before, this was nothing but an errand―a momentary divergence.

She had meant what she said to Eve. She was not asking Eve to _come along_ with her. Eve was not luggage. She was not an appendage to Villanelle’s trajectory. She was learning this, slowly, surely. A woman like Eve could not be moved so simply.

But forces could be manipulated in other ways. Lines intersected at multiple points. So: she had asked her to imagine a future, just as Villanelle would―a future away from here, perhaps, full and free and _new_ ―and what if it just so happens that two dreams collide?

“So, you do not like the place?” Villanelle began, spreading herself in the oversized chair she occupied. She did not particularly care for the answer; instead, she surveyed the living room. It was just as she remembered it―perfect. Her design. _Their_ design. A masterpiece.

The group of them sat around a small coffee table, Carolyn faced away from her, Konstantin standing like a hunched over grinch in the corner. _Poor old man_. Villanelle flashed him a grin. He did not return it.

“Oh, is that what he told you?” Carolyn took a long sip of her coffee. She was the type of woman to always have coffee, no matter the hour. It was not a drink as much as a device, an instrument to prolong uncomfortable silences.

“No,” Konstantin quickly defended, “I did not.”

“Yes he did,” Villanelle frowned, “he said you thought it was just _terrible_. A real downer.”

Carolyn’s mouth twitched, nearly a smirk.

“Well,” she said, placing the coffee down, “quite the contrary.”

“Oh?”

“The place is satisfactory,” Carolyn mused, and Villanelle’s eyebrows raised, this was a _high_ compliment, “and I just so happen to have another contract. One that takes a delicate touch.”

Villanelle frowned. Another contract. More of the same. _Repetition, repetition, repetition._

“Sorry. Not interested.”

Carolyn paused. Her face remained unrevealing, a sitting gargoyle.

“I think you will be,” she sipped her coffee again, and Villanelle grew impatient, “we have a very important political prisoner in custody. But he cannot stay here, I’m afraid. Too many watchful eyes. We are having to extricate him elsewhere.”

Villanelle’s curiosity piqued. Sue her if she couldn’t resist a little bit of international espionage.

She took a moment to respond, “and where exactly do I fit into that?”

Carolyn smiled, perfunctory. It did not reach her eyes.

“The safe house must be decadent, but unassuming. Grandiose, but restrained. Despite his status as a prisoner, this particular figure holds a degree of influence. I need someone who can design something that can meet his needs.”

Villanelle grinned, teeth flashing.

“You want me to decorate a safe house?”

Konstantin snorted to himself in the corner. Carolyn rose from her seat.

“Precisely. The location will be Amsterdam.”

Villanelle licked her lips, veins suddenly flooding with the idea of it―the Atlantic, a red-eye flight, a full purse of Euros, the dressing rooms, _Eve_ ―“And the commission?”

“Sixty thousand.”

Villanelle smiled, raised from her chair to meet Carolyn at eye level.

“Double it,” Villanelle outstretched her hand, “and we are in business.”

Carolyn’s eyebrows furrowed, “That is more than triple your typical commission.”

“Well, yes,” Villanelle gripped Carolyn’s hand, “but I do not work alone anymore.”

  
  
  
  
  


Eve gripped the vase in her hand. She thought about how it would look on the floor.

Shattered. A million distinct, cluttered pieces. Her reflection in each of them, staring back.

“Eve? You good?” Hugo interjected, finding her standing in the back of the store. He was lugging in a new delivery, laying it flatly behind a dozen other pieces of unsold inventory. Truth be told, in Eve’s absence, they were hemorrhaging money. Hugo did fine with sales, but his tastes veered closer to yard sale than boutique.

“Ah. Yeah. Sorry,” she placed the vase back on the dust laden table, “new chair?”

“Yeah,” he looked tired, “although I’m not sure it was a good buy. I’m shit at this whole curating thing, really.”

“You’re doing great,” Eve offered, but it was weak, misplaced. Their relationship wasn’t built on bullshit. It was built on a shared understanding of it.

“Right,” he laughed disbelievingly, “and how are you doing then, Eve?”

Tough question. For her, it always was. But now it veered into a different territory completely; her emotions no longer void, but all too lucid. Completely unavoidable, the little devils.

“Truthfully?”

“Course. Not like you’re a good liar,” he smirked.

Eve rolled her eyes, but sat down nonetheless. Sank into that one loveseat―the same one where her and Villanelle had sat. (Where she had cried, _God_ ) Stared at the vase just as they had. Studied how their dynamic had changed in the weeks since. Studied how she, too, had changed, wondered idly at where she was arriving now. Wondered how to put it into words. How to explain it to herself, first, how she could possibly translate it into a language someone else could understand―

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

“Leaving? Albuquerque, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Eve breathed out, a weight dissipating through breath. Funny how the truth is always lighter in the air than it is in the lungs.

“For how long?” he pressed.

“Don’t know.”

“Like a vacation?”

Eve laughed. She had never even considered that. No, she was much too stubborn, too single-minded. Either she was here, or there. Here, alone, dying, dead, or alive, breathing. In Albuquerque, or elsewhere, with…

“No. Like just… leaving,” Eve laughed, the ludicrousy hitting her.

Hugo sat himself across from her, staring intently like he rarely did―undivided concentration.

“With Villanelle?”

“Possibly. Possibly not.”

“And where would you go?”

“Don’t know.”

“Sounds like a real dandy plan, Eve.”

There was no bite in the commentary, just a smirk and an understanding. _Too_ understanding. Too sweet, a toothache. Eve was nearly getting nauseous from the kindness. The looks. The pity. It was overpowering―like too much sprite in a college cocktail. She had no use for sympathy. It had no exchange rate.

If she was going to ruin her life once more, let it be her ruin. 

“Yeah, it is,” Eve reclined into the chair, let herself sit with the confession, sit with the future she was molding, “so, you wanna help me sell this circus?”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're nearly rounding the end now, thanks for coming for this wild ride :) hope you're enjoying it as much as i am


	13. Departure

The grass was taller now. Taller than last autumn, crisp and brown at the tips. The trees were paler, husks of different hues. The wind was less forgiving. Time eroded, and eroded. 

Eve’s boots crunched on fallen leaves as she approached the gravesite. She settled into a bed of them, kneeling down into the dirt.

“ _Annyeong, appa_ ,” she touched her fingertips to the headstone. It felt warm, unaffected by the splitting wind. It was the kind of warm her father was: constant, unfettered.

Eve had come here with a purpose, a decision made. Strode in with the wind on her back, certainty in her gait. Yet staring at the headstone, she felt her sails shudder; guilt was a heavy thing, even heavier when self-inflicted. She took in a breath.

“What am I doing?” she whispered towards the stone.

Nothing whispered back.

“You know, you were always shit at advice.”

Eve cringed. Sighed.

“ _Bad_ at advice. Sorry. I know, I know.”

Staring longer at the stone, her face softened. She imagined his features: the hard angle of his jaw, the soft ridge of his nose. His disorderly teeth, unwieldy smile. _You have your dad’s spirit_ ―that’s what her relatives always assured her. His _spirit_. She always hated that turn of phrase, how tacky and intangible it was.

“It still feels tacky,” she spoke aloud, fingers prodding into dirt, “but I guess that’s all we’re really left with, right? A dumb hope that the tacky things we tell ourselves and our children are true. Ghosts. Afterlives. Angels and devils. _Spirits_.”

The wind was picking up speed now. A proper gust. Tree limbs quivered, leaves holding on by only a veiny thread. The shaky dynamics of Fall―the transitional season. Eve had always thought it to be the most violent phase of the year. Crop fields scoured. Trees barren. Semi-annuals die. After all, regrowth required uprooting. 

“Is it okay if I sell the store?”

Silence. _Deafening_. Eve’s nails dug into the plant beds.

“Is it okay if I leave you here?”

Nothing―the silent treatment; _figures_.

“Okay, relax. Of course I’ll visit. I’m not that shit of a daughter.”

She exhaled. Inhaled. Let the real question wobble on her tongue.

“Would you have liked her?”

Leaves rustled. Eve laughed. Stood up and brushed the dirt off her pants.

“You’re right. It wouldn’t have made a difference, would it?”

  
  
  
  


Konstantin smelled of toast. Rye, buttered. Crunchy. It was probably Villanelle’s favorite thing about him. The one thing that she would genuinely, achingly miss.

After all, she doubted they sold that at Bath and Body Works.

Unless―

“Villanelle!” Konstantin snapped, drawing her out of her musing. 

“What?” she grumbled, tossing a plant into the now overflowing garbage bag. She was regretting enlisting his help in this move-out operation. She could have easily just pushed the couch off the stairwell and picked it up three floors down. She didn’t tell Goodwill it would be in _great_ shape, anyway.

“You are very silent today,” he said, “it is disturbing.”

“Oh, now you are yelling at me for being quiet?” she yawned, “this is new.”

“I am just surprised, that is all. You are leaving the country next week. There is a _woman_ coming with you.”

“That is not confirmed,” Villanelle narrowed her eyes, pointed a finger, “do not jinx it.”

“Not confirmed?” Konstantin laughed in typical disbelief, “what do you mean, not confirmed?”

“It means I have not confirmed it,” she shrugged, “with the woman.”

Konstantin froze. Narrowed his eyes at her. “What, so no partner after all? Are you trying to rob Carolyn?”

Villanelle laughed happily, tossing another pot into the bag and hearing it shatter.

“Of course not. I am not _dumb_. Also, I have tried that already. Did not go so well.”

“You’ve tried robbing her _before_?”

“Duh. I’ve tried robbing just about every person I’ve ever met,” she rolled her eyes, “haven’t you?”

“Surprisingly, no. I have occasionally wanted to avoid going to jail.”

“I see no point in that. Jail is just a room.”

Konstantin shook his head. Villanelle grinned. Maybe she would miss _two_ things. Buttered toast and this. 

But she could get this over the phone. She heard they call it _facetime_.

“So, if you are not trying to rob Carolyn, then why have you not asked Eve?”

Villanelle frowned. Stared at the item in her hands; her fingers were curled around fabric. A dress. _The_ dress, to be specific: cashmere, form-fitting, black as night. She hadn’t found the right time to give it to Eve. She was never very good at planning that sort of thing. That kind of gift needed the right stage, the correct context.

“I am working on it,” she responded, folding the dress and setting it aside, “I do not know exactly what to say. I do not always have the best… delivery.”

Konstantin snorted. Villanelle glared.

“That is an understatement.”

“Shut up before I stab you as a going-away present,” Villanelle growled, aiming a clothes hanger at his throat. He smirked, but relented.

“Fine. Fine. You want my help, I get it.”

“No I do not,” she edged the hanger closer.

“Do you want Eve to come with you or not?”

Villanelle paused, stared into the whites of his eyes. Reaching a decision, she tossed the hanger.

“Do not make me regret this.”

  
  
  
  
  


“She definitely did not write this text.”

“Don’t read it yet, I’m not ready,” Eve groaned.

She bit hard at her lip as she watched Hugo analyze her phone screen. Yes, this was a low point. She could recognize it. Wasn’t proud of it. But here she was, so fuck you.

“I can’t believe you’re making me screen your texts,” he laughed, “are we in middle school?”

“Fuck off,” she growled, “is it bad? Why did you say that? Is it really bad?”

“No, Eve. Jesus. It’s good. Like, weirdly professional? Which is why she definitely didn’t write it.”

“What? Then who did? I don’t think that woman has friends.”

“Wow,” Hugo’s eyes widened, “and that isn’t a red flag because..?”

Eve opened her mouth, then closed it. Villanelle was basically a walking, talking red flag. That was kind of… the entire point. The whole, deranged appeal. But she didn’t need to _vocalize_ that.

“Do _I_ even have friends?”

“Not really, no. Except for me,” Hugo grinned.

“You’re my employee,” she waved her hand.

“ _Former_ employee. Now you have no excuse.”

“Fine, fine,” she groaned, “and she has Konstantin, I guess. Her weird boss, mentor… thing. I don’t really get their relationship.”

“Cool, so he definitely wrote this.”

“Christ,” she ran her hands through her hair, “enough. Just read it. I’ll survive.”

“Right,” he laughed, clearing his throat, “so it says… Dear Eve. How are you? I hope you are reasonably well. I am also reasonably well. I am currently disposing of my apartment. My associate Konstantin is assisting me and I am very grateful. Heart emoji. I wanted to contact you about another job offer. This is a different job and it will pay more money. It will pay exactly 71,139.84 united states dollars. I just converted that from euros with Google. It will pay that much. It will also be in Amsterdam. Reply YES if you would like to accept.”

As Hugo concluded, Eve’s mouth hung open.

“You cannot be serious.”

“That was word for word.”

“Is my life a joke?”

“Most definitely,” Hugo grinned.

Eve stole the phone out of his hand. Read the text twice over. Took a moment to process the events that led her to receiving this.

“How the hell do I respond to this?”

“ _Well_ ,” Hugo whistled, “do you want the job?”

She stared past him, pretended to think about it. Decided against pretending; she was awful at it.

“If we’re being honest, I don’t care,” she sighed, “I really don’t care.”

“Don’t care as in…”

“Christ―I like her. Way too much. Certainly more than a sane amount. So fuck it,” Eve threw her hands up, “she can take me to Mars. Throw me out into orbit. I really do not _care_.”

“I think Amsterdam is a bit closer than that, just an FYI.”

“You’re not funny,” she glowered, “like, at all.”

He beamed, “right-o. So we’re texting back YES then?”

“God, just smite me now,” Eve groaned, put her head in her hands, “yes. We’re texting back yes.”

  
  
  
  


The store was snatched not even two weeks after being put on the market; something something property value, up-and-coming neighborhoods, real estate market.

Eve couldn’t care less. It was strange, really―how unaffecting it felt. Like the end of an era was really just the passage of more time. Nothing inherently special in an ending. Just an _ending_ , and then the next day, and the next day, and...

She had a flight to catch.

  
  
  


“You can have the window seat,” Villanelle snickered. She put out a hand, waving Eve towards it. Did a little bow. The very picture of chivalry.

This woman was an idiot. Eve was quite possibly in love with her.

“Why? So you can sleep on my shoulder the whole flight?”

Villanelle frowned. Pleaded with her eyes.

“No, I’m just nice like that.”

“Right.”

“And…” Villanelle drawled, a slow grin developed on her face, “I get to trip people in the aisle.”

Eve laughed, pushed Villanelle in towards the window seat.

“No fucking chance. That’s my thing.”

  
  
  
  


Eve traced a line. It rode along skin, mainly―but also time; tracked lightly across months, bumped softly over the ridge of a scar. Counted one mole, two. Replayed conversations in a car, in a house, on the peak of a mountain. Dipped into the muscle of Villanelle’s jaw.

“ _Eve_. That tickles.”

Eve laughed.

“Good.”

Villanelle sat up. Eve met her there, the pair of their bodies molded clay. She barely felt the difference between them; like two surfaces heated at the same temperature. 

“Do you like the view?”

Eve’s eyes focused past Villanelle and towards the edge of the bedroom. It was bordered by windows, four colossal glass panes. A canal ran underneath, long-nosed boats bobbing in and out of view; towering Dutch baroque buildings reigned overhead; umbrellas and pigeons and _colors_ ―structures painted in blues and maroons.

“It’s alright,” she shrugged.

“That’s it? Just alright?”

“Doesn’t have that same Albuquerque charm,” Eve grinned, turning back. And there lay the real spectacle: Villanelle, wrapped in a robe, hair braided badly―a _dutch_ braid, she had insisted, subjected Eve to half a dozen YouTube tutorials on the latter half of their red-eye flight.

“Oh, you’re funny,” Villanelle leaned into Eve’s side, wrapped her arms around her middle, “I am very happy to inform you that you can buy breakfast burritos _anywhere_ , Eve.”

Eve raised a brow, looked at her cynically.

“Not like John’s.”

Villanelle rolled her eyes, wobbled her head in consideration.

“Okay, well, whatever. I can get them imported.”

“No, you really can’t.”

“I have my contacts.”

“At John’s?”

“ _Everywhere_ , Eve,” she grinned, and pressed her lips to Eve’s neck.

  
  
  
  


The safe house was large. Graciously spacious.

Two bedrooms. Three bathrooms. Two walk-in closets.

Notably: no secret sex rooms hiding behind bookshelves.

Not that it made a difference.

  
  
  
  


“You know, Eve, I was starting to worry that you had died.”

Eve laughed cruelly. Stared at the open river, one hand folded over the balcony, another trapping her phone to her ear.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Hardly. You are my first friend to ever make it out of New Mexico. I can’t have you up and die on me just when you got interesting,” Bill joked, “so, how’s your honeymoon?”

“ _N_ _ot_ a honeymoon.”

“Not _not_ a honeymoon.”

Eve stared at the light kissing the river, at the soft reflections the collision produced. It was gorgeous, a feast for the eyes. If this _were_ a honeymoon (it wasn’t), it wouldn’t be a _bad_ spot, per se―

“It’s a good job. The place is nice. Great views.”

“And the bed?”

Eve rolled her eyes.

“Average. Both the bed and the company.”

“I doubt that.”

Eve smirked, looked back through the glass panes to see a familiar woman staring intensely at a TV screen. They were halfway through _Inside Out_.

“Okay, yeah. The company’s fine. Whatever.”

“Gotcha.”

“Shut up,” Eve rolled her eyes.

“And you? How are you, Eve?”

Eve froze. Getting here―the flight, the safe house, _Villanelle_ ―had been occupying enough. Booking tickets. Packing bags. Selling her inventory. Turning her home of seven years into an AirBnb. Who had the time to be introspective?

Much worse, what if she was to risk it―the terrible ordeal of checking in with oneself―and come to the conclusion that she had made all the wrong choices?

She paused. Thought. Felt no volcanic eruption, no dramatic subsiding of the sea. 

“I’m… fine. I think,” Eve drawled, “I’m fine. Isn’t that weird? I’ve never been _fine_. I’m usually everything but, in either direction. I just flew across the ocean, sold my store, ditched my dad and half my valuables, and I’m just… okay.”

Bill snorted.

“Only you could make being okay into a _thing_. Fine is a fine thing to be.”

“Christ. Yeah, yeah. I _know_. But why? Why now, you know? And will it… stay like this? Will I be fine in 5 months? Why in the fresh hell am I so okay?”

Bill laughed again. One of those long, explosive ones. Eve couldn’t help but join in. Never had something been so equally distressing and ludicrous.

“I don’t know, Eve,” Bill said finally, laughs subsiding, “the future is one of the world’s most frustrating secrets.”

Eve groaned.

“And what? I just have to live with that?”

“Probably. Unless you find a way to talk to God.”

Eve paused, mulled over a retort. She was interrupted by a bang on the glass door separating the balcony from the interior.

“Eve, you are missing the best part,” Villanelle groaned, “Joy is coming to terms with Sadness. It is _crazy_.”

Eve shook her head.

“I’ll call you next week, Bill.”

“You better,” he sang, “or at least have a good excuse for it.”

  
  
  
  


The boat hummed softly, laboriously down the Keizersgracht Canal. It was late afternoon, a hair before dusk, and mist hugged the water like newborn clouds. They had paid 45 euros for the honor of slinking slowly down the waterway that evening; packed like rats in crates, the narrow boat brimming with jet-lagged tourists. 

Villanelle didn’t seem to mind. Eve, well:

“I’m going to kill someone,” Eve muttered, staring down an oncoming toddler. The pair of them were cramped into their very own corner of the boat, knees knocking together, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“No, you are not,” Villanelle laughed, leaning her head on Eve’s shoulder, “that would ruin the date.”

“This is a date?” Eve laughed. The thought had strangely not occurred to her. The word felt ill-fitting wrapped around their relationship; wrapped around the sequence of events that led them here; wrapped, maybe most importantly, around Eve.

“Well,” Villanelle raised an eyebrow, eyes falling to her hands piled neatly in Eve’s lap, “one, we are holding hands.”

“Hardly.”

Villanelle scoffed and pulled Eve’s hand from her pocket, hastily intertwining their fingers.

“There,” she breathed, “two, we are living together.”

Eve laughed, because―well, yes. They were roommates now. In _Europe._ European roommates who decorated… safe houses. For retired criminals? The whole situation was murky at best.

But, still, there was a _difference;_

“Living together on a business trip,” Eve corrected.

Villanelle ignored her, squeezing tight their hands, “Also, you are wearing a dress. You never wear dresses.”

Eve’s cheeks burned, the wind suddenly not harsh enough, heat rising from her center. She looked down at the cashmere, the way it hugged her hips, her thighs, her shoulders.

“Yeah, well, I’m being nice. You did buy it for me...”

“At Target,” Villanelle reminded her, “which was _very hard_ for me. Took real humbling.”

“I’m sorry you had to subject yourself to that,” Eve rolled her eyes.

“Well, I knew it would come in handy, you know,” Villanelle grinned, smug, “for a date.”

“Still not a date.”

“Oh, then are we _not_ going to have mind-blowing sex after this boat docks?”

The toddler sitting in front of them blinked, quirked his head. His mother stared at them, jaw unhinged.

Eve laughed, loud and hard. Felt Villanelle smile into her neck. 

It was hard to argue with that.

She stared up at the stars. They weren’t twinkling; in fact, they were quite dull―white blocks on a black canvas. But they were there, nonetheless, unobstructed. A reminder of their infinitesimal smallness. A reminder that hiding from anything was futile, really, in the grand scheme.

“Alright, so I won’t kill anyone,” Eve relented, felt the world turn gently on its axis; heard the river water rush beneath floorboards, “for the integrity of the date.”

“Good,” Villanelle whispered, “you know, I never said we couldn’t fit it into the next one.”

Eve sighed, gave into the fantasy of there being a _next_. Welcomed the inevitability of not knowing how many. Of not knowing where time and geography and _choices_ would bind her, whether it be Albuquerque or Amsterdam. Land or Sea. Heaven or Hell.

The boat bobbed. Eve pictured murder and sex; love and it’s aftermath. 

“We better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for coming along on this journey with me -- hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> (also, because i'm insane, i've already started another villaneve multichap lmao so check out little dark age for that gamer au esports goodness!)


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